


Dawn on the Third Day

by Nerves



Category: Trollhunters (Cartoon)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dubious Consent, M/M, Past Abuse, Power Imbalance, Unrequited Hate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2018-09-18 23:17:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9407243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nerves/pseuds/Nerves
Summary: Stricklander is growing impatient with how long it is taking Angor Rot to do his relatively simple task of killing the fleshbag Trollhunter. Giving him a deadline, tensions rise between them, and memories of their mostly separate yet parallel pasts are revisited through the complex feelings that they have for one another.





	1. Life's But a Walking Shadow (Sunday)

Metal scraped across stone in an unsettling way down in that dark, deep tunnel, and Strickler found that the sound brought with it an unpleasant set of recollections. He had tried to convince his new tool to stay in a place more easily accessible to Strickler, to stay put, but in spite of the Inferna Copula that rested on the changeling’s finger, Angor still had a mind of his own. Vile creature that he was, the assassin had made his home in the tunnels underneath Arcadia, far from the prying eyes of humans and trolls alike.

Strickler did not like it. He knew that it was not very troll-like to be unhappy in such dark, damp environments, but the combination of his centuries on the surface and his fear of Angor Rot made for an uneasy feeling in his gut. Still wearing his glamour - more out of habit than fear of encountering someone whom he did not wish to reveal his identity to - the changeling walked around the bend in the tunnel, already knowing what he would see on the other side. His eyes flickered in the dark as he came to a halt, looking at the creature whom he sought. The blade of Angor’s knife continued to scrape along the small rock figure in his hand, that same sound ringing even more clearly now. Strickler swallowed, but found his throat to be dry.

“Impure.” The word echoed as an unfriendly greeting in the tunnel and his bones alike, Angor’s voice a deep rumble. The yellow glow of the troll’s irises shifted as his gaze turned to look at his unwelcome guest. Strickler found that his mouth felt even drier. He sneered at the word that his tool had uttered, using a considerable amount of willpower to keep the low rage that he felt from bubbling to the surface. Angor had threatened to cut off the finger on which he wore the Inferna Copula before - it was best to not give him more reason.

“Angor Rot.” His tone was clipped as the spoke, the respect of using his name diluted by the tone of disgust with which he spat it out. “I see that you are settling in….” he trailed off, looking around the tunnel curiously, as if he had not spent a small eternity roaming those tunnels himself. “...quite comfortably.” Smirking, he returned his gaze to Angor, looking him directly in the eyes. Strickler had stared down his fair share of hostile trolls in his day - as a matter of fact, he had killed more of them than he could count - but there was something about the way that the assassin stared back that set him on edge. Although by Strickler’s calculations he and Angor Rot were nearly the same age, there was something in the glow of the troll’s eyes that spoke of an ancient evil.

But that was a curiosity to be killed at some other point. He was here for business. Taking slow, steady steps forward, Strickler kept a casual pace, as if unperturbed by the other troll. “I have not heard from you in a few days, and I thought I would come and check on you. I do _not_ like being kept waiting.” Angor’s gaze returned to the stone figure in his hand, still absently carving at it with his other hand. Strickler watched him, looking expectant. Another few moments of silence passed before he raised an eyebrow, leaning forward. “Well? Surely you have an excuse. What is it?” Angor smirked to himself, but continued to sit silently. The anger in Strickler’s gut was becoming harder and harder to suppress, and with a low growl, he took another few steps forward, his shoes echoing oddly. “Are you listening to me? I asked you a question!”

Turning his face towards Strickler, Angor’s gaze followed soon after, his smirk widening around his sharp-toothed underbite. “If you’re going to be demanding, perhaps it would be in your favor to not come to me looking like something that I would eat,” Angor said, an entirely inappropriate amount of amusement in his tone. “I almost think that you _like_ looking like a fleshbag.” Strickler flushed, stiffening at his words. His glamour. He had forgotten. Suddenly feeling very self conscious, his cheeks burned in embarrassment and anger alike. He made no move to drop his glamour, and instead tilted his chin up to look down his prominent human nose at the troll.

“Devouring me would not be in your best interest, Angor. You know better than to threaten me, _dog_.” Angor stiffened at the word, his eyes narrowing to slits. Strickler felt a small twinge of satisfaction at that. “Now, the Trollhunter. It seems that every day, I see him at school, and every day he is more and more emboldened.” Twisting his mouth into a sneer, he glared down at Angor, who in turn glared back up at him. “I fetched you for one purpose and one purpose only - to kill him. Why the wait?” Strickler hated waiting, and the fact that Angor had the _gall_ to force him to do so made him furious.

Standing abruptly, Angor towered over Strickler, a low growl rumbling in his chest. Wide eyed, Strickler drew back slightly, but refused to cower. He would not be vulnerable in front of Angor, not again. “I tire of your condescension, Impure. If you’re so desperate to have it done quickly, then you should do it yourself.” He spat the words out, clutching his fist around the stone figure. “I’ve told you before that if you want _me_ to do it, then you should be patient and let me do things my way.” The figure began to crack under the pressure of his fingers. “That has not changed since the last four times that you asked me.” The stone in his hands began crumbling through his fingers, falling to the concrete below. Strickler’s lower lip quivered slightly, a combination of anger and fear. He _hated_ the effect that Angor had on him.

Licking his lips, he was silent for another moment before he began, still looking up at the other troll. “Be that as it may, you’re _slow_. If you don’t show me progress soon, I _will_ have to punish you.” Angor snorted at his words, smirking.

“What could you _possibly_ do to punish me? _Talk_ at me? I already have to listen to you prattle on all the time, and as irritating as that is it’s nothing new,” Angor said, releasing his fist and allowing the last bits of the figure to fall from his fingers. Raising his eyebrows, Strickler suddenly looked all too devious, and Angor frowned at that. Without warning, Strickler’s hand shot out, fleshy fingers wrapping about one of the troll’s horns, and he with inhuman strength pulled Angor’s head forward until their faces were inches from one another, his action pulling a startled sound from the troll.

“Watch your tongue, Angor. Have you forgotten who I am, assassin? Do not let the non-threatening nature of my familiar’s face fool you - I am still the troll whose name others far stronger than you shudder merely at the mention of.” Smirking, he dropped his glamour and placed his other hand on Angor’s chest, claws digging into his living stone gently. He leaned close, breath ghosting over the other troll’s chin. He could see the rage, the hatred in Angor’s eyes, and despite the bravado with which he spoke, it made him uneasy to see that look in his eye. “I can still come up with creative ways to make you do my bidding, even without the Inferna Copula.” He dug his claws in harder, eliciting a pained grunt from Angor. “Don’t think for a moment that I’ve grown soft.” The words came out almost as a whisper, a kind of intimacy to them. Angor stared back at him defiantly, and Stricklander felt something like a spark, a warmth in his chest. Pulling back, the moment ended, and he put up his glamour once more. Angor watched him silently as he turned and began walking away, a smug look on his face.

“Stricklander.”

Angor’s voice rumbled through the space between them, and cut right through the heart of the changeling’s confidence. Strickler stopped in his tracks, but did not yet turn. “I heard much of you, changeling, both before and after Gunmar’s fall. Do you know what the Gumm-Gumms called you? Aside from Impure, of course.” Strickler slowly turned, his expression cold. He knew. He wondered if Angor would dare to say it. The troll smirked at him, slowly stepping closer, looming ominously over his master. “ _Ezuth_.” Angor nearly looked giddy as he rolled the word off his tongue, and Strickler sneered angrily up at him. How _dare_ he. “Stricklander the Callous. Stricklander the Destroyer.” Angor laughed, getting uncomfortably close. “You are neither. You never have been. You are only Stricklander the Vain - and time has not made you any more of a threat.” Without warning, Angor slammed his fist into the wall, a large crack developing where his hand impacted it. It took nearly all of Strickler’s willpower to keep himself from flinching too much. Another laugh rumbled up from the troll’s belly and past his gnarled tusks. “Look at you! Time has made you even softer.” Extending a clawed finger, he poked it into Strickler’s shoulder, gentle enough to not break the command of _do not harm me_. “My living stone is stronger than yours will ever be, _Ezuth Stricklander_.”

Taking a deep breath, his eyes still fixed on Angor’s, he raised his hand and gently pushed the troll’s hand away. He forced his face to remain neutral, his tone even as he spoke to the troll. “Strength does not matter, dearest.” His fingers curled around Angor’s thumb, his grip tight. The yellow glow of the Inferna Copula caught Angor’s attention, and his gaze flickered to it before he looked back at Strickler. There was more than a hint of a dare in the changeling’s eyes, a challenge. Angor felt a knot in his stomach. “Your soul belongs to _me_. Curse me all you wish, insult me until your voice is hoarse, threaten my life if that makes you happy - but at the end of the day, you are still _mine_.” He tightened his grip even further, his troll strength apparent even in his human guise. He smirked at Angor, the mockery of his gesture apparent in his bright green eyes. Releasing the troll’s thumb, Strickler ran his fingers delicately over the stone, almost soothing with his touch. With hooded eyes, he pulled back, something unsettling in the way he looked at him.

“You have three days to kill him,” he said, dusting off his hands and turning away once more to walk down the tunnel from whence he came. “If the deed is not done by dawn on Thursday, you will regret crossing me…” Looking over his shoulder, he smirked. “... _navetho_.” Angor snarled in anger, fists clenched at his side upon hearing the word. Oh, the Impure would regret that. Strickler turned away once again, and began walking down the tunnel. “I will be back in the morning to check on your progress. Do not fuck it up this time.” He disappeared into the darkness then, his final words echoing against the walls around Angor.

Long after Strickler vanished from his sight, Angor stared at the spot where he stood, his breath quickening as rage washed over him. Letting out a yell more suited to a battlefield than an empty sewer, he swung his fist into the wall once again, and the crack split all the way to the floor and to the ceiling, crumbling pieces of concrete falling around the troll like snow.

* * *

 

During the entire journey from Angor’s hovel to his office at the school, Strickler’s mind was occupied by the threat which he had made. He wished that the assassin had not challenged him like that, hadn’t pushed him by reminding him of such vile things. The truth was that Strickler wasn’t actually quite sure what he would do with Angor should he fail to end James Lake Jr.’s life in a timely fashion. Five hundred years ago he would have had a better idea about what to do, but the fact of the matter was that Angor was right - Stricklander _had_ grown soft. He had done well at playing his part during Gunmar’s war, but the truth is that he wasn’t really a fighter at his core - not the way that Bular was, the way that Angor was. True, he had been a very efficient weapon, a tool well sharpened to cut to the core of even the hardest troll, but his heart had never truly been in it. He was too ambitious, too _clever_ to merely be a spy, a killer, an instrument of torture.

Leaning back in his chair, Strickler grimaced, his fingers curling tightly around the pen in his hand. He had learned his place in Gunmar’s army the hard way. He could still remember the way that Bular had laughed at him when Stricklander had suggested Håls as a stronghold while they pushed further into the troll lands of northern Scandinavia. “You are a fool, Stricklander,” he had said. “We’re going east, not north.” Bular had turned to Gunmar then, and Stricklander saw on his leader’s face a smirk of amusement. “Give an Impure a place in the war room, and he suddenly thinks that he knows everything.” The chorus of laughs that followed that reverberated in Stricklander’s chest, anger and humiliation filling him to the brim - but he held his tongue. It wasn’t until after the meeting had disbanded that he found Bular and cursed him out, shoving him and challenging him. Bular had slapped him to the ground and told him that he wouldn’t waste his time on an Impure, and then spat on him before walking away. The humiliation followed him for a long time after that, and it was made worse when they coupled a month later. After Bular had fucked him against the wall of some lost troll tunnel in Isca, his body aching from the roughness of Bular’s harder stone against his, the glowing orange evidence of their copulation streaming down his thighs, he had touched Gunmar’s son with an unusually delicate hand, gentle fingers. What had he thought then? That Bular would show him any kindness? That by allowing Bular to penetrate him he too had somehow penetrated through the hatred that the other troll had for him? Between deep pants that came out as steam in the cold tunnel, Bular chuckled as he had in the war room, and with a mocking smirk curled around his tusks, he said “Even the way you fuck is Impure.”

Pulling the pen from his teeth where he had been gnawing it, Strickler squeezed his eyes shut, shuddering at the way the back of the pen dropped wetly across his lip. _Oh, Bular._ Any affection that he had held for Gunmar’s son had died hundreds of years ago, but still he felt a small pang of regret when he thought of the brute. Bular had been the main source of the disrespect and humiliation towards Stricklander that became prevalent throughout the Gumm-Gumm army, but the few friendly moments that they shared over the centuries still haunted him every now and them. And of course, Stricklander’s warmth and respect for Gunmar had effected that as well. But, Bular was dead, and should Angor Rot succeed in doing as he was tasked to, Gunmar’s return from the Darklands would be delayed indefinitely.

 _“Stricklander.”_ In his head, the sound of his own name was spoken both by Bular and Angor, both with a venomous hatred caressing the syllables.

Strickler opened his eyes suddenly, and flung the pen across the room. It clattered against the bookshelf at the other end before falling to the ground, leaking black ink onto the carpet. He stared at it for a long time before he sighed and began rubbing his temples. _What to do… what to do…_ Aside from the trouble of figuring out what to do with Angor should he fail, the changeling found himself rather preoccupied with what to do should Angor _succeed_. Grappling with Jim’s death - yes, fine, no big deal. Strickler had been alive for centuries, and he knew how to handle the death of a fleshbag child (although he would have to cope with the attachment that he had developed to Young Atlas.) But what would he do with Angor? There was no contract, no agreement between them regarding the end of Angor’s servitude - but the assassin was far too dangerous to simply keep around. He could give him his freedom certainly, but with the resentment that boiled in those glowing yellow eyes every time he looked at Strickler, the changeling found that the idea of freeing him was not a comforting one. Should he kill him? That too seemed like a dangerous feat, one far too risky to try. The idea of taking Angor’s life made him feel nauseous. A single misstep, and Angor would disembowel him.

Letting out a heavy sigh, Strickler looked out the window, watching as the sun ducked below the horizon. The time of trolls would be soon, as soon as the last light of day disappeared, the protection of darkness falling over them. Angor Rot would soon be on the prowl, and more likely than not, Jim would be ready for him. Strickler frowned. There had been a time where he had spent so much of his waking life in the presence of trolls, he had almost forgotten that he was not like them - that he could walk in the sun without fear of death. He wondered if that was part of the reason that Bular had hated him so. Shaking the thought from his head, he plucked another pen from his cup and pulled a stack of paperwork in front of him. While Angor Rot managed his troll business, Strickler would deal with his human trifles - such was their rhythm now. He would rule the day, and his dog would ensure that he could rule the night as well. Despite the easiness of it, he wasn’t certain that it truly was the natural order of things. Things were simpler when he simply followed orders from Gunmar.

Looking up, he glanced at the bookshelf to his right, his gaze alighting upon the spine of a hefty tome which read “The Complete Works of William Shakespeare.” Remembering a passage from Henry IV, he felt a knot in his stomach, and tried to push it from his mind as he returned his attention to the paperwork before him.

 

 _Canst thou, O partial sleep, give thy repose_  
_To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude,_  
_And in the calmest and most stillest night,_  
_With all appliances and means to boot,_  
_Deny it to a king? Then happy low, lie down!_  
_Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown._


	2. Let Not Light See My Black and Deep Desires (Sunday)

As night fell over the city, the time came for Angor Rot to walk the surface. He found himself less than inclined to do the Impure’s bidding after his vile display, but the Inferna Copula compelled him forward despite his frustrations with the one who wore it. The sooner he could be rid of Stricklander, the better.

Angor walked the streets with confidence, although he kept to the shadows mostly, ensuring that any fleshbag who saw him would simply think him a trick of the light. Arcadia Oaks was a quiet town, something which the troll had used to his advantage. Unlike centuries past, the trolls of Arcadia kept to themselves underground, away from the troubles of modern humans. That distance allowed him stealth, space to do his work. He wondered what had changed, what had allowed trollkind to fade into myth. Glancing in a window as he walked past, he saw a family of fleshbags sitting together, all focused on a box with bright lights and moving colors. Angor paused for a short moment, transfixed by the strange sight. What _was_ that? There was something enthralling about it, something soothing. Realizing that he had stopped for too long, he shook himself out of it and continued his walk. With every step, he felt more and more annoyed, the loss of his Shadowstaff weighing on him. He hoped that his slaying of the human Trollhunter would allow him the chance to kill the fleshbag girl as well.

Ducking into one of the backyards on the street which he had come to know quite well, he walked across the neatly trimmed grass with surprisingly light steps for a being composed of stone. He had long ago mastered the art of disappearing, and making it all seem as if he was never there was part of that. Reaching the other side of the yard, he jumped over the tall fence with ease, landing on the other side with a dull thud, rock hitting compact dirt. He hated how routine this had become, how he had been demeaned in this way. He had killed thousands in his time, troll and human alike. He had once been feared, respected - now he was nothing more than the puppet of a vainglorious changeling with delusions of grandeur, worthy only of killing fleshbag children.

Angor Rot had fallen far, but he would ensure that Stricklander fell further.

Entering the backyard of the Lake residence, he looked around carefully, watching for evidence that his presence was known. He knew what lurked in the subterranean space of that home, a young troll warrior who served as protector. Angor stood silently for several moments, until he was satisfied that he had not awakened him. He looked up at the dark windows then, searching for signs of life. All was still. All was quiet. Satisfied, he circled around the home until he came to a window on the side, about an easy twelve feet from the ground. He leapt into the air, clinging to the siding with ease, the only sound a light thud as he made contact - a small enough sound to be mistaken for a squirrel. Climbing up, he reached the window and uttered a brief incantation, at the sound of which the window slid open with ease. He slipped inside, quiet as a mouse, the window sliding shut behind him.

From his many excursions into this house, he knew this room to be Ba Bu Rah’s. It sat empty now, dark save for the crack of light coming through the open door from the hall light downstairs. She was gone, as she often was during the night. Angor used to think that she was at Stricklander’s home when she was gone so late, but his frequent and habitual prowling around the changeling’s home revealed that to be false. It was for the best. The idea of a troll coupling with a human - even an Impure troll - made him nauseous.

He walked silently out of the room and into the hall, down to the door that he knew to be the human Trollhunter’s. The boy was foolish, as were his troll friends. They thought that Draal in the basement and the proximity to humans would keep Angor Rot at bay! Reaching out a clawed hand, he grasped the doorknob and twisted it, the door opening with a faint click. He opened the door slowly, inch by inch revealing James Lake Jr. sleeping soundly on his bed, face down and still wearing the clothes that he had during the day. Angor smirked to himself, releasing the doorknob as he stepped into the room. Jim’s soft snoring sounded throughout the room, light and fragile - befitting a fleshbag such as him.

He could kill him. He could have killed him a hundred times in a hundred ways. But once again, he came here not to kill, but to observe. If only Stricklander knew how many times he could have done it and didn’t. It was part of the game, part of the hunt. The changeling would not understand. He only knew conniving and bare-faced threats. He looked at Jim for another long moment before he walked over to the window, looking out across the street. Things were dark at the other fleshbag’s home as well. He knew there was a troll over there too, another one none the wiser. He turned to the Trollhunter again, watching him with faint curiosity. Why had the amulet chosen _him_ of all beings? Angor had killed his fair share of Trollhunters both weak and strong, but a _human_ was simply unheard of. He had come to expect the unexpected whilst under Stricklander’s command, but that did not mean that he liked it.

He lingered there for a long time, watching the fleshbag, a ritual that he had repeated more often that he perhaps should have. He was always craving sensation, purpose… something to fill the void in his chest. It nearly hurt sometimes, the emptiness inside, the ache of nothing. His was a cruel fate, a wretched thing that Stricklander clearly lacked a full understanding of. It made Angor hate him even more. Finally, once he had grown tired of watching, he turned and exited the room, pulling the door closed behind him. Jim stirred for a moment, his eyes fluttering open, and then closing once more as he drifted back to sleep.

Before long, Angor found himself outside of Stricklander’s home, looking at _his_ windows. Unlike others, the changeling kept his curtains closed at night, surely to allow himself free reign to drop his glamour should he so choose. The curtains on the downstairs windows filtered out the glow of the lights within, shadows moving across their fabric. Unlike the ordinary fleshbags, Stricklander rarely slept, and was active most of the night as well as daytime. Angor had learned this centuries ago during his brief tenure with the Gumm-Gumms, when they told him stories of Gunmar’s pet changeling, the nervous _ezuth_ in their midst. His regular watchings of Stricklander in his Arcadian home confirmed those stories, the tales of how he would pour over ancient tomes at all available opportunities, seeking the answers to unknown riddles.

Normally, Angor was satisfied to simply watch the shadows dance from the outside, but on this night, he found that he had a strong desire to enter the house. Perhaps it was the anger that still simmered with in him, the desire to see Stricklander frightened and alarmed, or maybe it was some kind of curiosity about exactly _what_ the changeling got up to when he was alone. Whatever it was, it compelled Angor to move to the back door, hand hovering over the handle. He felt the tingling of a rudimentary protection spell plucking at his fingertips menacingly, and he smirked. _Cute_. Certainly it was strong enough to keep the average human or troll out, but the spell was no match for Angor Rot’s dark magic. Nonetheless, Stricklander’s attempt was endearing. Murmuring an incantation, he disarmed the spell and unlocked the door, opening it slowly and silently. The door led into a dark kitchen, light dancing on the archway that led to the living room. He could hear the light plucking of a stringed instrument, quiet and low, a recording of some classical piece which he did not know the name of. He never cared much for the fleshbag arts.

Hearing Stricklander let out a sigh in the living room, Angor stepped into the dark corner, still as a statue - indeed, wouldn’t a human think him one anyway? A few minutes passed without any movement from Stricklander, and so the assassin exited the shadow once more. He moved quietly through the kitchen, and stood in the archway, looking around the room. It was a fairly normal looking space by fleshbag standards - more full of books than the abode of the Trollhunter, but that was not surprising, considering the fact that Stricklander was intelligent and over a millennium old while the Trollhunter boy was obviously quite stupid and barely of comparable age to a troll infant. Various knick-knacks and human comforts were spread throughout the space - an armchair, a dim lamp, a haphazard pile of rocks, an orange couch on which Strickler was sitting - but the most curious object in the room was also the primary source of light. As he had seen in other fleshbag homes, there was a large, flat box on the wall across from the couch, displaying a bright wall of static. In spite of himself, Angor found his eyes drawn to it, a strange feeling washing over him as he stared at it. It was soothing and invigorating all at once, a kind of intoxicating feeling. He felt a tingle in his lower back as he watched, a warmth in his otherwise cool body.

“What is it?” The words came out unexpectedly, and Angor startled himself with them. He startled Stricklander too. The changeling cried out as he simultaneously and violently attempted to jump up off the couch, twist around to look at the intruder, and pull his hand out of his underwear. In the process, he tripped over his coffee table, dropped his glamour, and crashed to the ground, his right horn hitting the ground with a loud _thwack_. The suddenness of it all snapped Angor’s attention away from the strange light box and turned it instead to the changeling. Letting out a groan, with one hand Strickler touched at the tender spot on his scalp where his horn attached to his skull, and with the other he attempted to push himself into an upright position. He looked dazed, and Angor couldn’t help but chuckle as he watched Stricklander attempt to compose himself and focus on the other troll’s face.

“What in Gunmar’s name are you _doing_ here?” he growled, shifting on the ground and then unsteadily rising to his feet. “And _how_ did you get in here?” As he stood, he continued to hold his horn, a pained grimace on his features. Angor looked at him, taking in the dazed look on his face, the dilation in his slit pupils, the unmistakable bulge in his tiny white underpants. It had been amusing enough to see him so scantily clad when he still had his glamour up, but it was particularly preposterous to see him in them whilst his true form. He looked like a bigger version of the pet changeling that the Shadowstaff thief kept. The troll smirked, his gaze wandering back to the Stricklander’s face after an uncomfortable few moments.

“Oh, Stricklander,” he said, a certain kind of pity and mockery in his tone. “If only Gunmar could see you now - dressed in nothing but fleshbag undergarments and surrounded by fleshbag filth. His own pet changeling, so deep into his cover that he can’t shed his human skin unless someone scares him out of it.” Stricklander flushed, resisting the urge to cover himself. Self-consciousness was not troll-like, and he would rather deal with the consequences of Angor seeing him in such a compromised state than show him humanlike weakness. He did wish that he could will away his erection, but that too would have to go away on its own.

“Don’t speak to me like that, dog.” Lowering his hand from his head, he clenched both fists at his side, and began walking towards the intruder. Angor watched curiously as the nearly naked troll practically stomped towards him, his smaller body exuding almost tangible waves of anger. “Did I or did I not give you a deadline? What are you doing _here_? You’re wasting moonlight!” As the changeling circled around the couch, Angor once again found his gaze drawn to the outline of Stricklander’s erection in his underwear. He found himself more and more curious as he tuned his voice out, thinking instead of the tales that he heard about Gunmar’s spy.  “Do you think this is some kind of joke? I told you before that I-”

Angor cut him off abruptly by grabbing him by the throat, his grip tight enough to keep the changeling from moving without choking him. Stricklander gasped, flushing again as he felt a wave of arousal wash over him. “What. Are. You. Doing?” he bit out, grasping Angor’s wrist with clawed hands. Using the hand around the changeling’s throat, Angor pushed him back against the couch, causing Stricklander to release his wrist to brace himself against the orange upholstery. He let out a small sound of alarm at that, very uneasy about how aggressive Angor was getting. He felt even more uneasy about the fact that he liked it.

“I heard a _lot_ of stories about you when I was with the Gumm-Gumm’s,” Angor said, his voice thick with amusement. Stricklander felt his stomach leap at his words, his primary emotion now embarrassment.

“ _Oh_?” He feigned surprise, tilting his head back as best he could, his eyes narrowed. The tip of his left horn bumped against one of the pillows on the the couch, a tacky embroidered thing that read ' _YOU KEEP ME IN STITCHES!'_  “What exactly did you hear?” Angor smirked at him.

“I heard that you learned a lot of things from the humans - a _lot_ of things that Gunmar never sent you to learn.” He put his other hand on Stricklander’s thigh, his thumb slipping between his legs. The changeling scowled at him, but he also squirmed in an attempt to try to encourage Angor’s hand _up_. Angor’s smirk broadened at that. As much as he despised the changeling, he certainly had qualities that made him attractive to Angor - mainly, the fact that for all of his tough-talk, Stricklander was no match for him. “They told me about how much you liked to show off your human skill set.” Stricklander’s brow shot up and his mouth dropped open in shock, but he quickly changed his expression back into a neutral one, his jaw clenched. As a troll, there was no shame in coupling with however many partners as he pleased, as most clans of trolls tended to have a jarring openness about sex, but as someone who spent half his time as a _human_ he had learned to be embarrassed by such things.

“Are you thinking that I’m going to show off to _you_ , Angor?” He had meant for the words to sound incredulous, but instead they came out as a nearly hopeful purr. _Fuck_. A chuckle rumbled in Angor’s chest, his grip on his neck tightening just a bit. He liked the feel of Stricklander’s living stone underneath his, the warmth of him permeating through. It was unusual compared to other trolls that he had been with, and he understood what had made Stricklander so desirable during Gunmar’s war - even if he wasn’t a particularly handsome troll.

“Do you think there’s anything about you that’s _impressive_ to me?” As he spoke, he suddenly moved his hand from Stricklander’s thigh and instead cupped his groin rather too harshly, drawing a yelp from the changeling. He was still hard, his erection hot under Angor’s hand. Squirming against his hand to create friction, Stricklander breathed hard as he leaned further back onto the couch, his body contorted at a weird angle. Angor laughed again, rubbing his hand against him. “Look at you. Do you really have such little control over yourself?” Stricklander glared at him, his mouth slightly agape. Letting out a low growl, he placed one hand at the elbow of the arm with which Angor held him, and the other he placed against the assassin’s abdomen, finding that his groin was just a little too far out of reach. Angor looked more than a little surprised at that. The glow of the Inferna Copula looked eerie against the pale stone of Angor’s belly.

“If you want to fuck me, you need only to say so,” Stricklander said, the couch sliding back against his weight, causing him to lose his footing for a moment. “Be direct, you _coward_.” Angor growled at that, sneering down at him. Shoving him back into the couch even more, he released him and pulled back, allowing Stricklander to collapse unceremoniously against the couch, just barely managing to catch himself before he fell to the floor.

“Do not call me that, Impure. If not for the Inferna Copula, I would have _gutted_ you ages ago.” He growled out the words, fists clenched. _Oh_ , how he wanted to _kill him_! The waiting was agony. Touching his neck where Angor had held him, the changeling stared up at him, his arousal giving way to irritation once again. He swallowed, staring up at him for a long moment.

“Well, now that _that_ is out of your system, you can leave.” Pulling himself up, he glared at Angor, frustrated at the turn of events. He would have liked that either the deed had been followed through to completion, or that the door had never been opened at all. He did not like this half-finished airing out of presumably mutual lust. “Your deadline is fast approaching, and even Gunmar couldn’t save you if you fail.” Angor snorted at that, but there was no amusement in it. Without a word, he turned and walked back into the kitchen, and then out of the house. He would get Stricklander soon, one way or another. He was not scared of the changeling’s empty threats.

As the back door clicked shut, Stricklander let out a heavy sigh, propping himself up against the archway. All was quiet once more, save for the music that still trilled obliviously from his small speakers in the far corner of the living room. He stared at the door for a long time, the strangest feeling of disappointment occupying his mind. It had been quite some time since he had been with a troll. He hadn’t coupled with Bular in centuries, and Nomura was less than interested in him - Angor was the first interesting troll that Stricklander had encountered in a long time. Absentmindedly touching his neck where Angor had held him before, he felt a jolt of arousal in his groin. He wondered if Angor would have done it, had he not called him a coward. It was unwise to antagonize Angor, but then again, it was also unwise to couple with him. In the end, he had decided to anger him instead of pleasure him, but he still felt an odd weight on his shoulders, a feeling of loss. It was a familiar one, no less unsettling in its familiarity.

  
One hand resting absently on his collarbone, he raised up the other and spit into it, slipping it back into his underwear as he wrapped the other around his throat as tightly as he wished that Angor had. When he came a few minutes later, the strangled cry that he let out was heard only by the troll that stood like a sentinel just outside Stricklander’s kitchen door, a guardian and a patient murderer all at once.


	3. Yet do I fear thy nature; It is too full o' the milk of human kindness (Monday)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long! I wrote probably about six different versions of this chapter and scrapped them all after a page or two until I finally ended up with this. I have a pretty good idea of what the rest of the chapters look like, so here's hoping I'll be able to get them out more quickly. Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy this!

It was concerning to Stricklander that when he made his way to Angor’s makeshift hideaway in the middle of the afternoon, it was empty. He knew that the troll sometimes wandered in the daylight hours as well, his magic allowing him to extend shadows where they were not previously, but he had thought that he would at least wait until a little bit later in the day. Stricklander cursed under his breath as he wandered around the area, frustrated that he had no reliable way to check on Angor. The Inferna Copula occasionally allowed him visions of the assassin and his whereabouts, but he had yet to piece together what exactly it was that allowed him such sight. He knew some magic, but it had never been his forte and now that he was trying desperately to retain his already tenuous control over what was essentially an ancient troll-assassin-wizard, he wished that he had spent more time in the centuries after Gunmar's exile studying it. He kicked angrily at a few crumbling fragments of concrete, the pieces proving to be no match for the hard stone of Stricklander's foot as they broke apart, scattering across the floor. He had even gone to the trouble of dropping his glamour before he came, a gesture to try to discourage any nasty comments from the troll about fleshbags and impures.

He stood in the center of the den for several minutes, pondering his next move. He half wished that he had given Angor a cell phone, but he knew that he wouldn't use it, and that he would have derided Stricklander if he had even suggested it. As someone who had been ridiculed by nearly every troll that he had met for his entire life, he was understandably sensitive to mockery, and so inviting it in was simply no real option.

Deciding that the troll would clearly not be returning any time in the near future, he thought he would take the opportunity to examine Angor's makeshift home. He was curious about how a troll such as him lived, and it had been quite some time since he had spent any considerable amount of time alone in a troll den. Bular was the only full-fledged troll that he had spent any time within the last couple centuries, and he had guarded his den like a vicious dog. Stricklander had wandered in exactly once, and after receiving a decidedly unfriendly warning and a punch to the chest that was so hard that it cracked his living stone, he did not make the mistake of wandering in again. And to think, he had gone there to give him good news! Remembering Bular's less than stellar moments made Stricklander miss him a little bit less.

Looking around, he peered at the old arches that lead into decommissioned tunnels, covered in grime from decades of disuse. One of them had collapsed, and Angor had clearly made it his home. Stricklander stared at it for a long time, pondering. It was dangerous to wander too deeply into a den, but the curiosity that he felt was overwhelming. Angor had been on his mind the entire night, and the more he thought about him, the more that he wanted to know. He shifted closer, pausing again, and then he made a decision. Had he not been wearing the Inferna Copula, he would not have dared to wander there - but since the ring rested comfortably in his finger, he began climbing through the rubble. Little pieces of debitage were littered throughout, signifying it as the place where Angor spent a great deal of his time. It was hardly a comfortable place, but trolls often made their homes in strange places. It was something that Stricklander had never been able to do very well, having been pampered by the comfortable homes that humans constructed. Picking his way though, he saw that beyond the initial pile there was a spot further in the tunnel where the concrete rubble had been rearranged at the entrance of another tunnel. He noticed a faint glow coming from the area, a yellowish orange color. He would have thought it was fire had it been flickering. Jumping down onto a clear spot, he slowly approached what appeared to be a structure the closer he looked, cautiously peering around the corner of a haphazardly constructed wall. Perhaps he had been wrong, and Angor _was_ in his den.

Gazing inside, he was relieved to see that it was unoccupied. He had gone into the dens of many hostile trolls before, but rarely without one of Gunmar's prized warriors behind him. He felt a bit exposed, and he glanced behind him before he entered. Stepping into the nest, he looked at the glowing rocks that Angor had imbedded into the walls he made, their hues of oranges and reds and yellows adding warmth to what otherwise would have been a dismal place. As he moved, stepping closer to the stones, he could swear that they were almost _pulsing_ , as if in time with Stricklander's heart. It was soothing and exciting all at once, not entirely unlike watching static on the television. The entire space smacked of enchantment, and Stricklander could practically feel it buzzing in the air. He should have been nervous, but as he stepped into the glow, all he could feel was an overwhelming calm. A voice somewhere in the back of his head screamed at him to leave, warning him that it was a trap, that the magic of this place had been constructed just to ensnare him and allow its owner to steal the Inferna Copula - but with the haze over his mind, he pushed the thought away, dismissing it as the paranoia that comes with being a foot soldier for nearly a millennium. Why would Angor ever be so foolish as to try to harm him? He knew of Stricklander - he knew what he was capable of. While his personality made it seem like he was dismissive of the changeling, Stricklander knew better. With his precious soul on the line, why would he risk it?

Stricklander would later learn that this train of thought was extremely misguided and was indeed the result of an enchantment that Angor had set up with the express purpose of tricking him - but in that moment he was unable to pay it any mind.

He turned his attention to the pile of rubble and scavenged materials that took up the back third of the space, and identified it as the sleeping area. It was strange to think of Angor Rot sleeping, but the indent in the center of the pile indicated that he did, in fact, sleep. The whole situation was objectively unsettling, and he wondered for half a moment what had driven him to come back into this place, and then shook the thought from his mind. All that mattered that it was warm, soft, comfortable, _safe_. Inexplicably, he found himself walking over to the makeshift bed, staring down at the concave spot, thinking of the troll who belonged there. It would be ill-advised to say that there was some significant emotional bond between them beyond the pull of the Inferna Copula, or to say that their fates were intertwined permanently, but it was undeniable that there was some sort of magnetism between them, some natural force that encouraged them towards one another. Stricklander had felt it when he went to Columbia to find Angor, and it had only grown stronger the longer they were near each other. He had felt it centuries ago as well, when their paths had brushed across each other's for that small moment in time.

Stricklander had had countless connections over his two thousand year lifespan, connections to trolls and humans alike, but there was something unusual about Angor. It wasn't romantic love - that invented human concept designed to comfort those troubled by the agonizing loneliness within them was one that Stricklander had experienced only a handful of times, and it was distinct from what he felt with Angor. There was desire there, yes, but that was superficial. Desire had been created in Stricklander as a hole to be filled, a void in his chest that he attempted to fill with validation in the form of the sexual gratification of others, a desperate need to fuck and be fucked to confirm that he truly belonged. No, desire was only a small fraction of what ached inside him when he thought of Angor. Reaching out his hand, he touched the indent, releasing a breath that he hadn't realized he was holding in. Even beyond his breath, he felt suddenly even calmer than before, the oppressive weight that followed him everywhere suddenly dissipating with that single touch.

Oh, _that_ was dangerous magic.

Although he was still present in his mind, he only had the faintest awareness of what he was doing. The sense of euphoria that washed over him was intoxicating, and it glowed bright and warm within him. _I need to stop this. I need to get out of here_. The thought passed through his mind with no urgency, and he watched it go, unperturbed. It suddenly occurred to him that he had not slept the night before. He had been so unsettled by Angor's late night visit that he had been unable to, and now, in this nest, that lack of sleep was catching up to him. Perhaps it would not be so bad for him to lay down for a minute. Angor was clearly still busy on the surface, and the longer that he was in the nest, the more he was seduced by the warm, comforting lull that took over his mind. His thoughts were passive as his body went through the motions of removing his cape, and the sound of the feather shaped knives of its collar clattering against each other barely registered in his normally alert mind. Soon he found himself nestled in with rubble and scraps of leather and dried straw and little pieces of rock, and every feeling of discomfort morphed into rapture. _There must be a charm... an idol... something... I must destroy it!_ The thoughts came and went, and as he looked up at the glowing gems, he felt his eyes droop. _He's going to come back, and he's going to kill you!_

Stricklander's eyes fluttered shut, and sleep overcame him.

As he entered his dreamscape, the world was bright and vivid, as if it were a tangible place which he had come to. Stricklander did not like to visit his past in his waking life, but when he slept there was no escape. Monsters and death and loss plagued his dreams, relics of past centuries that he could not bear to part with, despite the suffering that they caused. It was perhaps the main reason why he cared so little for sleep. How very clever of Angor - he must have known how little the changeling slept and decided to take advantage of that fact to add ease to enchanting him. It was clever and stupid all at once. The dreamscape was where time rewound, where old incarnations of Stricklander's self dwelled. It was unwise to remind a changeling of the past - trolls lived one lifetime, one single being stretched out over thousands of years - but _changelings_ lived hundreds of lives, collecting enough wrath and hatred to forever fuel every one of them. Walter Strickler as he lived in Arcadia Oaks, California in the year two thousand and sixteen may have been a cranky but harmless persona whom the changeling had adopted, but Sten of Westmorland in the year one thousand two hundred twenty eight had witnessed the birth of Stricklander.

The changeling passed the memory by, not focusing too closely on the blood and the horror and the screaming and the killing. Since he was here, he would use Angor's trickery to his advantage. Perhaps revisiting their brief encounter centuries ago would give him some idea as to what to do with the troll. Clearly the mere threat of punishment was not enough. He continued past various memories, good and bad alike, searching for a thread to lead him to that moment that he knew existed. With hundreds of years to sort through, it would have been an arduous ordeal, but thankfully he had been organizing his memories for ages. He continued on his journey, that strange calm still washing over him even as he regained his rational mind. He passed through rows and rows of memories, each of them kept behind a glass window. Some of them he had painted black so as not to see what lay beyond, and some of them he had broken.

As he moved past, he heard and saw small glimpses, and forced himself to not feel the emotions that washed up with them, like broken shells in the sand. He walked past Ásgeirr as Gunmar praised him for the ferocity of his first kill. He walked past the Gumm-Gumms as they shouted _ezuth_ after him, Elkar close behind, telling him not to listen to them. He walked past the little troll girl that cried and cried and cried and he couldn't do a thing. He walked past the knife as it hovered above the baby in the changeling nursery. He walked past Barbara and her kind words and her beautiful red hair and the way that she looked at him as if he were a creature of warmth and kindness. He felt an ache as he moved past her, but changelings lived long and humans lived short, and no matter what kind of love he felt for her, it would never be enough to prolong the inevitable. He had already learned that lesson long ago.

He almost walked past a dark pane of glass with little cracks in it, but in spite of his better judgement, he stopped. He would not turn to look at it - he could not. Even through the hazy euphoria of Angor's spell, he could feel the pain cutting at him, begging him to give mercy. He clenched his fists at his sides, claws digging into his palms. He could almost hear the voice, the rich baritone warm and kind and heartbreaking. "Sten... I just... I just want you to know... that I-"

He moved forward, pushing the thought away, and allowed Angor's spell to calm him again as the voice of Walter of Strickland faded away, the whisper of a dead man forgotten to the archives of his memory.

He continued on for ages, jumping sporadically through time, frustration tickling at the edge of his mind as he tried to find that single thread. Foolish, _foolish_ Angor! He had done Stricklander a service by enchanting him, for now the tedious task of combing through old wounds had been made tolerable, and finding where that memory had been buried would be much less agonizing. He hardly noticed as all of his most painful memories were laid bare before him, the torment of the past kept at bay by the warmth in his chest. Angor was a fool for thinking that he could best Stricklander, and the changeling would see to it that he learned that lesson. Cunning and careful planning and deceit were admirable in their own way, but simple magical trickery? That was the tool of a _coward_.

Suddenly, the memories stopped, and all became clear and white. He saw it there, the thread, the thing he had been seeking. _Of course_. Now that he saw it, all was apparent to him. His subconscious must have been working to find it for _weeks_. Perhaps it had been searching for _months_ , before he had ever even thought to wake Angor Rot. Following the thread, the path was long but it was clear, and realization washed over him as slow and steady as the sunrise.

When he stepped into the memory, he could see dawn approaching on the horizon. The troll behind him was tittering nervously, but Stricklander had paused and was watching the sun. _Come on_ , the troll said. _Sunrise is coming! We need to get back inside._ Stricklander pulled his gaze away, eyes roaming curiously across the landscape. _Hills. Grass. Cave. Pine. Alder. Oak. Scotland._ He took in the sight of what had clearly been a struggle - toppled trees, rocks where they shouldn't have been, and dark patches of ichor everywhere. He pressed his stone lips tightly together. _One thousand, three hundred and fourteen._ He looked down at his hands. They were sticky with deep maroon troll blood. He almost felt a lump in his stomach. The troll with him became more insistent, and so he made his way into the cave entrance, the light of dawn fading away as he entered the darkness. He could see fires glowing deep within. It was a war camp. They were nearing the end in that year, and Deya would soon banish Gunmar. The familiarity of it all set him on edge.

As they ventured deeper into the caverns, they passed small gatherings of Gumm-Gumms, each of them lowering their heads in deference as Stricklander walked by. What a strange thing - he had forgotten what respect like that had felt like. The centuries during which they had reviled him had much more of an impact than the one where they did not. Looking away from them, he continued walking, now knowing where his destination was. It came out of the darkness as the tunnel emerged into a large cavern, its ceiling dotted with glowing gems. This was once an old troll city. If one peered closely enough into the darkness, they could see the ruins of structures and trolls alike, but no one cared to look too closely. The war had raged for centuries upon centuries, and even Gumm-Gumms did not like to dwell on all that had been lost.

On the broken foundation of an old temple sat a great tent, large enough to accommodate thirty trolls the size of Gunmar. Outside, near the large fire that blazed, there was a small gathering, familiar faces all. Bular, Rahjin, Hailith the Wrathful, and ARRRGH! stood together, talking - and there, right next to them but miles away all at once, he stood silent and contemplative, his face calm but with a rage burning in his eyes - Angor Rot. 

The scars on his living stone where large sections had been removed glowed brightly in the dark of that cavern, the beautiful blue of his insides drawing the eye. Stricklander felt the lump in his stomach now, undeniable in the strange feeling it left. Was this what he had felt when he had seen him? Was he so overcome by his beauty and his ugliness all at once? Suddenly, he stood before Angor, and those yellow eyes moved slowly to look at him. The other trolls seemed not to notice him, which made it all the more disconcerting that Angor stared right at him. The troll looked at him for a long moment, seeming to be appraising him, and then he looked back at the fire, disinterest written on his face as he crossed his arms over his chest. "You don't belong here." Angor's voice was the same, and yet completely different all at once. It was younger, softer, less full of hatred than the Angor of the present. Even stranger were his words. _That wasn't right_. Angor had never said that to him. Stricklander stared at him for a long time before he too looked at the fire.

"I never came over here," he said plainly, watching the flames lick the air. He had never liked fire, but Gunmar did. Perhaps that's where he got his aversion from.

"No, you never did," Angor agreed, turning back to look at him. "We never spoke." Stricklander looked back too, his gaze meeting the troll's with unprecedented calm. He remembered how nearly all of Gunmar's inner circle had been excited about the potential of having Angor Rot in their ranks. Stricklander never had the luxury of being a part of those conversations.

"I left the next night," he recalled, the memory flashing past.

"Yes. You never had the time to pursue me properly." Stricklander frowned. _Pursue?_ Angor raised his brow. "Do you not remember?"

"Tell me."

"You stood over there, by the entrance to that tunnel."

The memory came to him. "I stood over there. I watched you."

"I caught you watching me."

"What did I do when you caught me?"

"You remember."

Stricklander stared up at Angor, and then slowly raised his fingers to his mouth. He slipped his tongue out, licking the blood from his fingers. Angor watched as he inserted his fingers into his mouth, and then pulled them back out again, all while focusing uncomfortably on the other troll's yellow eyes. Stricklander could remember the taste of that blood on his tongue. It had been disgusting, and not worth it in the end, for Angor simply stared at him with a blank expression before he looked away, his gaze back on the fire.

"It's a shame I never got to show you what I intended to do with you," Stricklander said. "I coveted you that night, and forgot you the next day. It was a waste of a first meeting."

Angor turned to him once more, but his face was no longer passive. Rage burned in those eyes, a hateful sneer on his lips. "This was not our first meeting, _Impure_." Stricklander felt a jolt of confusion, and then realization all at once. Angor uncrossed his arms, and took a step towards the tent. The thread had returned, and he saw now that it led further back than he had believed. "Tread carefully, Stricklander. Your past is not a pretty thing."

He pulled back the flap then, and suddenly the scene had changed completely. Everything was harsh and vivid and alive even as everything died around him. The fires burned hot, he heard shouts and screams, horrible noises that echoed throughout the stone buildings of the troll village. The Gumm-Gumms were everywhere, cutting down all those who dared stand against them - and all who did not dare as well. It was a scene familiar to Stricklander, although it had happened in so many times and in so many places that he could not distinguish one from another. The cavern was hot, but Stricklander did not shed his thick cloak. He stood tall, strong, unafraid in the face of chaos and death. His hands were still stained with blood, but it was more now, and it was darker and thicker. He looked to his left, though he knew not why. The crumbled corpses of fallen trolls lay piled in front of a hut, a sad sight that stirred no emotion in him. He had numbed himself to the horrors of their war long ago. As he looked into that pile, however, he saw something move - a foolish troll who had hidden himself among the bodies of his fallen friends in order to save himself.

If there was anything that that incarnation of Stricklander hated the most, it was a _coward_.

Plucking a knife from his cloak, he stepped towards the pile, watching as the troll tried to pull himself free, seemingly unaware of the approaching changeling. The troll grunted, a large wound oozing beautiful blue as the lower layers of his living stone were exposed. Stricklander paused, a mounting sense of horror and realization gripping him as he watched. Suddenly, the troll noticed his presence and turned his face towards him, fear written all over his ravaged features. _Angor Rot_. They stared at each other for a long time, Stricklander with his knife held high, and Angor completely helpless to do anything. He remembered. He remembered it all.

The Inferna Copula glowed brightly on Stricklander’s finger, and it drew the attention of both trolls before they turned their gazes back on one another, recognition and resentment and fear exchanged between them. The light from the ring became so bright that it drowned out everything else, and Stricklander was pulled back into the waking world.


	4. Unnatural deeds do breed unnatural troubles (Monday)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for sexual harassment and violence in this one. More than halfway there now!

When he woke, he was faced with the living, breathing version of the phantom he had sought in his memories. Shaking himself free from the spell which had been cast over him, it took him a few moments to register that Angor was holding his hand, his fingers reaching for the Inferna Copula. Stricklander immediately sprung into action, grabbing Angor by the horn and using it as leverage to pull the troll down into the nest and onto his back, where he straddled him. Delivering a swift punch to the nose, Stricklander wrapped his other hand around the troll’s throat, his teeth bared and his eyes full of rage. Angor grunted in pain, touching his hand delicately to his nose. He stared up at Stricklander, shock written on his stone features. “How did…” As the spell faded and lucidity took over, so did the rage. How _dare_ he? The calm of his magic no longer pulsed through Stricklander, and he punched Angor again, the sound of stone cracking against stone nauseating, especially in the context of what he had just relived.

“How _dare_ you?!” He growled down at him, and Angor glared up. The troll too bared his teeth, hate burning in his eyes. “Did you honestly think that _trapping_ me like some wild animal would work? Do you really have any idea who I am?” He punched him yet again, and Angor let out another grunt, grabbing him by the hips. The troll made an attempt to free himself by toppling the changeling, but Stricklander used both hands to hold him down by the horns, the angle making it awkward for Angor to try to right himself. “Uh-uh, _no_. Stay put right there where you are.” The command dripped with hatred, and Angor felt as if ropes had wrapped themselves tight around his spine, jerked him down, and tethered him to the nest, their bonds unbreakable. The sensation was more than a little unpleasant, and in spite of himself he let out a cry, more out of surprise than anything else. Stricklander felt a pang of pity for him for a moment, but the thought quickly vanished. “Well?” he asked, leaning close, his hands still on his horns, the Inferna Copula glowing bright. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

Angor stared up at him, his left eye twitching with the pain. His claws dug into the comparatively soft stone flesh of the changeling’s lower back, but Stricklander ignored him. “You know what I want, Impure,” he ground out, his grip tightening. “Give me what I want, and I will let you live.” Stricklander laughed in his face, but there was no humour in it.

“You failing to give me what _I_ want is not warming me to the idea of giving you what _you_ want. Your threats mean little to me, _dog_.” Prying the troll’s hands off of him, he stood up, watching Angor carefully as he did so. He took a few steps back, eyes glinting dangerously in the warm glow of the nest. Angor did not move, save for his heaving chest. He was panting, small snorts and grunts escaping from his mouth as he glared up at Stricklander. He was quite familiar with that look. The changeling knew that the only thing that was keeping his head attached to his body was the ring on his finger. “Why can’t you just do as you’re told?” He nearly sounded tired.

“You may wear that ring, but I do not belong to you,” Angor ground out, his hands curling into fists. “I’ve done the bidding of others for centuries - that ring will soon be mine, and I will answer to no one but myself.” Stricklander stared at him for a long moment, contemplating both him and his words. He knew very well what it was like to be a tool with no agency, but he liked to think that he handled his indignant anger with more grace than the other troll did. There was a kind of naivety to Angor’s declaration, and it irritated him. He had been bound by the Inferna Copula for merely seven hundred years, if Stricklander’s memory served him correctly. What was seven centuries of reluctant servitude in the face of two millennia of forced devotion? At least Angor had had time to develop into a proper troll with his own will and thoughts. Stricklander had been taken by Gunmar as an infant, raised among the Gumm-Gumms to be the perfect spy - and perfect he was, for Gunmar loved him dearly, his secret weapon, his precious pet. But at what cost?

“Angor, you seem to be very mistaken about something,” he said slowly, taking a step closer. Angor watched him closely, hands twitching at his sides, his mouth turned downward into a grimace. He took another step, and then another, and then he leaned down, hands on either side of Angor’s head. “While I wear the Inferna Copula, you _do_ , in fact, belong to me.” There was no way that Angor would ever understand what it meant to serve one master for one’s entire life - there was no way that he _could_. Besides, with his lippy attitude and his constant demeaning of Stricklander and his escape attempts, he would be impossible to keep for more than a few years at most. Stricklander allowed his gaze to wander pointedly over the troll’s body, eyes glowing with curiosity that had been tainted by lust. Slowly, he ran his fingers along one of the roots that was protruding from Angor’s shoulder, and then across the troll’s chest. Angor moved to push Stricklander’s hand away, but the changeling slapped his hand back. “I said, _don’t move_.” As with his back, Angor felt an unpleasant jolt as his hands were pinned down by that same invisible force, and he let out a growl.

“What are you playing at, Impure?” he spat out, fists clenching. Sticklander ignored him, opting instead to return his hand to Angor’s chest, his touch light. “Stop that,” he growled, trying in vain to wriggle himself free. The changeling smirked to himself humorlessly, a kind of moral anger overtaking him. His hand wandered downward, over the troll’s abdomen, circling above the belts around his waist.

“Do you not like this, Angor?” he asked gently, running his hand further downward, over the soft leather of his belts, down to the worn fabric of his loincloth. Angor froze, staring at the hand as it moved over his crotch, rubbing at the flaccid phallus beneath. His gaze moved up to stare into Stricklander’s face, and found a pair of eyes staring back at him.

“I think you’re disgusting,” he replied, fingers twitching at his side. Stricklander could see the pained look on his face as he slipped his hand beneath the loincloth, moving underneath the folds of the fabric to find Angor’s cock.

“That’s not an answer,” he snapped, stroking him, feeling him slowly start to respond. “Most trolls find my very existence repulsive, and yet they still desire me.” Angor scoffed, eyes dropping to watch Stricklander’s hand move under his loincloth. His phallus twitched, causing the changeling to smirk. “See? You can’t help it, can you?” He dug his claws in, causing Angor to let out a grunt in pain.

“Release me, or I’ll rip your head off of your shoulders,” he ground out. Stricklander glared down at him, gripping tighter.

“And how exactly do you propose to do that when you can’t harm me?” he hissed. Nonetheless, he complied with Angor’s request and released him, withdrawing his hand from his clothes. “You’re pathetic, trying to trap me like that.” He stood up once again, turning to leave. “You can get up now.” His bonds being released, Angor immediately sat up, rubbing at his wrists. The changeling bent down to grab his cape, swooping it over his shoulders with a flourish. As Stricklander moved to leave, Angor’s voice stopped him.

“ _Wait_.” In spite of himself, Stricklander did. “The spell… how did you break it like that?” The changeling raised his brows in surprise, and then forced his face back into a neutral expression before looking over his shoulder at the troll.

“You are far more trouble than you are worth, Angor Rot.” He turned away again and exited the nest, his steps a bit quicker than normal.

* * *

The steps creaked unpleasantly as Strickler trotted down into the basement of his home, something nearly frantic in his gait. As much as he tried to deny it, he was rather spooked by his encounter with Angor. He had expected resistance, certainly - Angor talked back to him and made veiled threats every day, usually many times - but the lengths to which he would go were far greater than he had anticipated. He would have expected him to at least test the waters _before_ resorting to enchanting him and attempting to steal the ring, but apparently he was mistaken. He cursed under his breath. Strickler had spoken the truth - Angor really _was_ far more trouble than he was worth. He should have just killed the boy himself.

He nearly laughed. As _if_ he could convince himself to kill Barbara’s child.

The days where a Grit-Shaka wearing Stricklander strode into a human village and killed everyone in his path were long gone, and his years outside of battle had made his stomach weak to the thought of murdering children, Trollhunter or not. It did not help that he had always had a fondness for Jim, even before circumstances had drawn him and Barbara together. Perhaps it would have been easier for him to abandon the Gumm-Gumm cause centuries ago, but there was hardly any point in worrying about it now. The damage was done, and if Strickler knew anything about humans, it was that their capacity to hold resentment was nearly as intense as a troll’s.

Reaching the final step, he landed gracefully on the stone floor of the basement, careful not to step on any of the precarious piles of books that he had sitting around. His changeling eyes had no trouble seeing in the dark, but still they strained if he looked for too long, and so he quickly found the switch for the overhead light and turned it on. The old bulbs flickered to life, casting a warm glow over the study, the light reflecting prettily against the odd trinkets that lined the walls. If his office at school was a descriptor of how he lived as a human, than his basement study was a descriptor of how he lived as a troll. His natural trollish inclination to keep everything in combination with his advanced years had created a rather vast collection which filled his house, especially on the subterranean level. Whenever his lack of aging caused him to have to move cities again, it was always an arduous task to pack up and move all of his belongings - especially since he couldn’t exactly enlist the help of human movers to handle the majority of the items. It was an annoyance to say the least, but he still could not bring himself to part with his collection.

Toeing off his shoes, he carefully tip-toed his way through the stacks in his socks, making his way to the vast desk in the center of the space. There was an urgency to his movements as he unearthed the chair behind it, removing even more books and strange trinkets. He dumped them gracelessly on the ground and quickly took a seat, grabbing the first book in front of him. He found himself perplexed by the effect of Angor’s magic on him, and the peculiar question that he had asked as Stricklander was leaving.

_The spell… how did you break it like that?_

It was a very good question. Stricklander had thought that Angor had broken the spell himself, and so it was odd indeed that he did not have an answer. Perhaps it would be best if Angor thought that he had been hiding powerful magical abilities from him, but Strickler knew that even that would not be enough to keep him at bay for long. He had been in more dicey situations than his current one, but he still did not enjoy it. As wrathful and violent as Bular had been, Angor scared him more. He was the perfect killing machine, a warrior designed specifically to destroy any troll that dare cross him or his master at the time.

Strickler knew that somewhere in his piles of books there was a tome that described more about Angor and the Inferna Copula - it had been referenced in the book that he had used a few months before to locate the troll and his cursed ring in the first place. At the time it hadn’t been important, and after Bular’s death and the destruction of the Killahead bridge, he grabbed his copy of _Dangerous Trolls and How to Avoid Them_ and not much else. It was a foolish choice, and very unlike him - he was suffering the consequences now. Locating the tome in a pile that he had deposited near the edge of the desk, he opened it and began leafing through. As he scanned the pages, looking for the one that he foolishly had failed to mark, the vain part of him found it rather annoying that _he_ did not have an entry in this particular volume. It was not surprising, of course - he had been Gunmar’s _spy_ , after all, and secrecy was his trade - but nonetheless it annoyed him.

He flipped past the page he needed before suddenly remembering what he was looking for and flipping back, letting out an annoyed grunt. As he stared down at the tome, very close and generally looking rather manic and disheveled, he resembled a desperate historian in an ahistorical action-adventure film, frantically searching for the answer that would prevent all-out war. And he was, in a way. He had this horrible feeling in his gut that told him that to do battle with Angor would leave a trail of corpses, mangled so badly that he did not dare think about it for too long.

Reading along the Trollish script, he mouthed the words silently to himself, skimming for the passage that he faintly remembered. He tried not to look too hard at the artist’s inaccurate but still terrifying rendition of Angor Rot that had been placed next to the text. They had at least gotten the eyes right. Finally finding the citation that he had been seeking, _The Gloomanac_ , he started digging through the books on his desk. He was not completely certain that he had the book, but the title seemed familiar, and so he desperately hoped that it was somewhere in his sea of texts. He quickly exhausted the collection of books on his desk, and abruptly got up and began digging through the piles around him. The longer he spent searching, looking for a tome that he knew most likely was not there, the more anxiety he felt building in his gut.

The realization that he was steadily coming to (and had been for some time) was that raising Angor had been a mistake. It was not like Stricklander to make mistakes like that, but he seemed to be doing it more and more lately. When had he grown so soft, so careless? It would be easy to blame humans for it, but part of him thought that it really was his own doing. He had never _really_ wanted to be one of Gunmar’s legion, not deep down. But Gunmar had raised him, cared for him - he cared for Stricklander more than the other changelings certainly - and it was hard for him to let go of that fact. He had always been a sentimental fool deep down, and it had always been his undoing.

Perhaps that’s why even then the thought of simply killing Angor before he killed him never even crossed his mind.

There certainly was no love lost between them, but still that strange connection haunted him. With the exception of innocents, he barely felt a thing when he thought of the deaths of others - and Angor was hardly innocent. Nonetheless, when he imagined taking his life, he felt an odd ache in his chest. Knowing that Angor wouldn’t think twice about killing him made the ache worse. It was a terrible, terrible thing, and it was infuriating that he could not make the feeling go away.

As his eyes trailed over the name _Trainu Nim_ , he felt his heart leap. _At last, something familiar!_ He remembered Trainu Nim, the old sorcerer who had acquired the ring after Gunmar’s banishment. Stricklander had never liked them, their many eyes gleaming beady and terrible out of a sinister face. He seemed to have some faint recollection of hearing about their finger being cut off, and the Inferna Copula with it, but he could not remember much more than thinking _good riddance_ . While the sorcerer might have been an annoyance then, Strickler felt excitement at the first thing in a long time that held any promise. How long had they kept Angor? Eighty years? That was _more_ than enough time, and if Strickler could find them and enlist their help, he could regain control of Angor!

At last, a shred of good news!

The excitement and happiness that he felt washed through him warmly, and as he crouched down to look through his books once more, hopefully finding Trainu Nim’s trail, he did not worry. The feeling stuck with him as he pulled book after book into his lap, searching still urgently, but less desperately. When he found out where Trainu Nim was, he could find a way a way down to the gyre in Trollmarket and travel to their location. It would be quick, hopefully painless, and he smiled to himself as he began to formulate his plan.

He was so engrossed in his thoughts that he did not at once notice the tugging on his finger. When he became aware of it, however, his stomach sank, a feeling of dread and panic overtaking the optimism that he felt. He had known that Angor would be back, that he would make another attempt at the Inferna Copula, but he hadn’t thought it would be so soon. When Strickler turned his head to see that the one trying to pry the ring from his finger was Jim, he did not take the time to process it before he reached into his blazer and drew his knife, striking fast and without pondering the consequences. It was foolish to allow Jim to become involved. Strickler had never wanted to see his blood be shed, but it was far too late for that now.

The sound of blood splattering onto the book in his lap was familiar and almost pretty. It made him feel sick.


	5. It will have blood; they say blood will have blood (Monday)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for blood, some violence, dubcon, and implied StrickJim.

“ _What are you doing here?!_ ”

The words rang out eerily in the basement, echoing against the stone walls. They sounded worse over the pained groans coming from the boy laying in a pile of books, gripping his forearm tightly in an attempt to stop the steady stream of blood coming out of it. The blood dripped wetly onto his jeans, his shirt, the books and the floor. Strickler had messed up, and he had messed up _badly_. His breathing was heavy as he stared down at the boy, his hand still gripping the knife tightly. _Fuck._ His hands felt shaky, his eyes wide with shock. He had thought it was Angor coming back, and so he struck - never did he think that _Jim_ would be the one trying to steal his ring. 

The thought passed through his mind, bringing horrible implications with it. His chest felt tight. 

“You _cut_ me.” 

Jim turned his gaze on Strickler as he groaned the words out, his eyes wet with tears and his teeth gritted. He had never seen such hatred in the boy’s gaze. It hurt worse than he possibly could have imagined. Foolishly, he felt a stinging behind his eyes, a sensation so rare that it terrified him to feel it. Narrowing his gaze into a glare, he gripped the knife tighter, prepared to be the villain that Jim clearly wanted him to be. “You tried to _steal_ my ring,” he spat back. “That was a very foolish thing for you to do.” Lifting up his knife to show it to the bleeding boy, Strickler sneered down at him. “This is no ordinary blade, Young Atlas. It’s made for _trolls_ , not humans.” He glanced down at the place where blood was seeping through Jim’s fingers. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it cut you down to the bone.” He felt a wave of nausea, but pushed it down. It simply wouldn’t do to be sick at that moment. 

As he looked down at his boy, a question perhaps a bit more pressing was how exactly Jim even snuck in in the first place. Strickler hadn’t even heard him - he was known to become immersed in research, but never so deeply that he could no longer hear! The panic that he had felt earlier started bubbling up again, and he gripped the knife tightly to keep his hand from shaking. “How did you get in here?” He asked, his voice hardly more than a growl. He needed the answer, something to sate the desperate need to know that was swiftly overtaking him. Jim was still groaning on the ground, staring up at him. Strickler could see that he was waiting for the right moment to go for the amulet, to don his armor. But would the amulet stop the _bleeding_? He could see that question racing through both of their minds. 

After a long moment, Jim let out a shaky exhale, and replied. Clearly, he hadn’t expected to be caught. “The Kairosect,” he replied simply, causing Strickler to raise his eyebrows in shock. “You won’t be able to steal it, it’s not here. Besides, it’s all used up so there’s no use trying to nab it anyway.” The changeling’s mouth pressed into a thin, angry line. _Magical trickery!_ He was quickly becoming sick of it, especially as he was on the receiving end of it from all sides. If Jim was telling the truth about the Kairosect, it truly was a pity. Strickler could have made much better use of the time-stopping device than Jim had, and he certainly would have planned it better so that he wouldn’t be _caught_. 

Lowering the knife, he took a few painfully slow, steady steps towards where Jim lay. Neither of them dared to look away from the other, not knowing each other’s intentions. The tension between them was palpable, a woozy kind of hatred occupying the air they shared. As Strickler drew closer, he could see the sweat on Jim’s paled face, the pain in his eyes. Foolishness aside, he really was a brave boy. It sent another pang through the changeling’s heart. Stopping in front of him, Strickler slowly raised his hand, showing him the Inferna Copula. “You know what this is, don’t you?” He framed it as a question, but it was really a statement. He would not tell Jim if he did not know, but as he watched the boy glance at the ring, desperation in his eyes and his lips pressed into a thin line, he knew that he knew. It was not surprising - with a troll historian such as Blinky as an asset, it would be easy enough to figure it out. 

“It’s the Inferna Copula.” Jim spoke the words after a long silence, his voice strained as he tried to pretend he was stronger than he actually was. “That’s how you’re controlling Angor Rot.” Hearing the words come out of the boy’s mouth sent a chill down his spine. _Controlling._ It was the truth, but only technically. Jim did not know the stress, the _difficulty_ that came with being Angor’s master. The boy was a fool if he thought that he would be any better at controlling Angor than Strickler was. 

“Do you honestly think that you can _control_ him?” he asked, brows furrowed. “He’s a monster, Jim. His purpose is to _kill_ every Trollhunter that he comes across, to hunt _you_. Serving his master is an afterthought.” He tiptoed around the truth, attempting to convey urgency without revealing too much. Jim did not need to know about Angor’s disobedience - it would only further weaken Stricklander’s already tenuous bond to the troll. “It would be very stupid of you to try to _keep_ him. He’ll rip you apart.” Jim glared up at him, that same hatred burning hotter in response to the changeling’s words.

“ _I_ don’t want the ring. _Angor_ does.” 

Strickler felt his heart leap in his chest. Oh. _Oh._ His face paled, and he stared down at the Trollhunter, wide-eyed. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t expected betrayal from Angor - he knew that he would be coming for the ring since he had already tried taking it not even three hours before - but the fact that he had gone to _Jim_... He felt an odd anger in his chest, cold and hard. Inexplicably, it felt like jealousy. He turned his gaze away from the boy, his eyes landing unfocused on a speck of blood on the floor. He had thought Angor was more _direct_ , that there would be an inevitable showdown between them. Him attempting to circumvent that by using the Trollhunter almost hurt worse than his attempts to steal the ring. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jim let go of his arm to grab the amulet from his pocket. The boy hardly had the time to get out the words “For the glory-” before Strickler stomped down on his wrist, pinning his arm to the ground with a sickening crunch. Jim let out a scream as he did it, his weakened fingers letting the amulet drop to the floor. Any pity that Strickler had felt for him vanished as the rage from Angor’s betrayal overtook him. Glancing at the boy’s other arm, he saw how his blood continued to stream from his wound, forming a puddle on the ground. He was losing _a lot_ of blood, and he knew that there was no way that he would be able to fight back now. Strickler would get the information that he could, but the question that he would have to address sooner rather than later was whether he would let the boy die. 

“Killing Bular has not made you any wiser, Young Atlas. You should have put on your armor _before_ you attempted to steal the ring,” he said, his tone deceptively cool and calm. “Did you want to live a long life? If you did, you should know that it’s shortening the longer that you’re lying there.” He ground his foot down harder, pulling another scream from Jim’s weary throat. “You’ll pass out soon. It is up to you whether you will wake up or not.” Removing his foot from the boy’s wrist, Jim hardly had time to move to defend himself before Strickler crouched down, his crotch uncomfortably close to the boy’s face as he kneeled on his shoulders, pinning him down once more. Grabbing a fistful of Jim’s hair, he jerked his head back and placed the knife at his throat. Jim grabbed weakly at Strickler’s blazer, leaving bloody stains on the brown fabric. “What did Angor offer you in exchange for the Inferna Copula?” He could see the tears streaming down the side of the boy’s face as he stared up at Strickler, his anger tainted by fear. It was a pretty picture, and Strickler hated the way it made him feel a little hot under the collar. 

“H-he… he said he’d break th-the bond between you and my m-mother.” He choked out the words, his breathing labored. That same panic from before welled up in Strickler’s gut, and he inhaled deeply to keep himself calm. The stink of blood in the air brought back familiar memories which he would rather remain locked away. Pressing the blade harder against Jim’s skin, the edge of the blade punctured the flesh of his neck ever so slightly, producing a few tiny droplets of blood. 

“Did he tell you _how_?” he asked, his mind racing. Jim gave a weak struggle beneath him, his eyes drooping as consciousness slowly slipped away from him. Strickler gripped his hair tighter, pushing him down harder. “ _Did he tell you how!?_ ” he repeated, more urgently. Jim mumbled something indecipherable, hands gripping weakly at his blazer still. “ _ANSWER ME JIM!_ ” Spittle landed on the boy’s face as Strickler shouted the words. Jim never answered, and Strickler realized that he had finally fallen unconscious. He felt his stomach drop. 

The situation was dire, to say the least. 

The time had come to make his choice, and he felt completely unprepared. It was quite a predicament that Jim had put him in. Not for the first time, Strickler wished that the amulet had chosen another troll, and not the human boy that he had grown to be fond of. Putting his knife away, he stared down at the boy’s face, peaceful at last. The bags under his eyes were prominent, a sad thing to see on one so young. Strickler had loved a boy like him once, youthful and brave and naive and _oh so pretty_. He had given his cold lips a kiss before he pulled his blade out of his chest. Strickler had never liked hearing the phrase _those who do not remember the past are condemned to repeat it_ , and as he stared down at the boy below him, he could think of nothing else but those words and that boy. 

The truth of the matter was that Strickler was condemned anyway. It wouldn’t matter if the boy died because there was no escape from his actions now. Troll or not, it did not matter if he saved Jim or killed him, because both would reveal more than he ever could risk. Letting him die would buy him time at least, before anyone noticed that he was missing. 

As he thought that, he still found himself pulling his belt free from the loops on his trousers. He moved off of Jim so that he was no longer pinning him down, and set to work making a tourniquet. As he fumbled his way through it, it occurred to him that he had never tried to save a human before. The thought made his heart hurt. 

Before long, he found himself scooping the boy into his deceptively strong arms, lifting him up from the ground with ease. As he held him there, cradling the doomed boy, he stopped for a moment to stare down at that face again. How ridiculous - Strickler had raised Angor from his slumber for the purpose of killing the Trollhunter, and yet when Angor sent him to his death by Strickler’s own hand, he could not simply let him die. Gunmar would be ashamed if he could see him. 

Pushing the thought from his mind, he carried the boy up the stairs. 

* * *

The journey to the hospital was a swift one, due to the great speed with which Strickler raced through town, his bloodstained hands sticky against the steering wheel. He narrowly avoided causing at least four accidents as he sped through the streets, his mind swarming with thoughts about what he would do next. He did not look at the unconscious boy in the passenger seat. He could not bear to. 

When they arrived outside of the emergency room, he moved without thinking, carrying the boy into the hospital. It made for a rather dramatic scene, the blood soaked boy being carried by his rather desperate looking teacher. Someone came to take him rather quickly, and Strickler blurted out something about finding him like this, and he thinks he tried to kill himself, and would he be okay? His broken wrist couldn’t be accounted for with the suicide story, but it was enough to buy him a little bit of time to make his escape. 

Barbara didn’t notice him in the confusion as she saw her son on a stretcher in bloody clothes, but he felt her heart racing in his chest. He felt guilty as he saw the panic in her eyes, even as she desperately tried to keep her face calm and collected. 

No one had recognized him or stopped him to question him, and so he quickly slipped away before they did. He did not look in the rear view mirror as he drove away. 

* * *

When he returned home, he immediately tore off his clothes, annoyed with himself for how he was shaking. He had killed hundreds - probably thousands - of humans in his lifetime. Accidentally offing one was not a big deal in the grand scheme of things. It was pathetic of him to be so unnerved - there would always be more boys. There was nothing special about James Lake Jr.

It was a lie that he kept repeating to himself as he ascended the stairs to the second floor, bare feet landing heavily on each step. 

When he entered the bathroom on the second floor, he looked in the large floor-length mirror, taking in the sight of himself. Standing there nude, he wore only Jim’s blood, large stains on the bare flesh of his glamor. He was used to the sight of himself covered in blood, but not in that form. It was odd at best, and horrifying at worst. He stared at himself for a long time before he looked away, and climbed into the shower. 

As he washed himself, he watched as the blood came off of him in dark brown-red rivulets, circling the drain and then disappearing. Indoor plumbing had certainly made things like this much easier, and for that he was thankful. As the blood disappeared drown the drain, it failed to take his worries with it, and he stared at the wall for a long time. What was he going to do? The last time he had been exposed like this, he had killed all thirty-six people in the village and moved on to the next one, and none had been the wiser. Now, in this world with police and cameras and forensics, it would be much harder for him to run and hide nearby. Besides, a simple solution like eradicating the entire town was impossible in his current situation. There were far too many people, and with Trollmarket beneath, it simply was not a possibility. 

He had to run away. _Far_ away. 

He knew it, but the thought of leaving made his heart hurt. He had grown very fond of Arcadia, of the people there. He had made a life for himself there, a place where he felt at peace. Being Gunmar’s prized spy had never offered him that, that feeling of warmth and love. Leaving meant no more teaching, no more socializing in the break room. Leaving meant no more nice strolls along the bridge at sunrise, no more pleasant chats with his kinder neighbors. 

Leaving meant no more Barbara. 

He was used to losing humans that he loved. It was a common theme in a changeling’s life to watch their human friends die around them, but the thought of losing Barbara hurt more than it usually did. Maybe it was because of Jim, maybe it was because of the fact that they had barely had any time at all together. Maybe it was because when he was with her, he felt that there was a possibility that he could change. The sense of hope was false of course, and he knew it, but _god_ did it feel good. He clenched his fists at his side, the water rushing over his face. He had done her so very, very wrong. He would have to take care of her before he left. The Inferna Copula glowed brightly on his hand, casting a yellowish hue across his fingers, but he did not notice it. 

As the water heater depleted its reservoir, his shower grew cold. He stayed in it for a few more minutes even as the water became icy, relishing the unpleasant sensation on his human flesh. Finally, he shut it off, pushing his wet hair out of his eyes. He would need to start collecting his things. He had to pack light, a thought which made his chest hurt. He did not want to leave behind his collection, but he knew that he would have to - at least for the time being. After he did that, he would have to find a way to sever his link to Barbara. Keeping himself linked to her would only be dangerous, especially with Jim incapacitated or possibly dead, allowing Angor more opportunities to set traps to kill her. He simply couldn’t risk it. 

Grabbing his towel, he stepped out of the shower, rubbing the water out of his hair. He barely bothered to towel off as he made his way out of the bathroom and into the hall. It was dark in the house, and Strickler felt a chill as he noted that the sun had set. Angor would be on the prowl soon. What would he do when he could not find Jim? Would he come back to Strickler? Would he piece together what happened? He could buy time when it came to humans, but he wasn’t sure how to buy it from Angor. The troll had a sharp mind, or perhaps just a natural insight into how Stricklander dealt with others. Either way, it would be difficult should he come knocking. 

Making his way into the bedroom, he did not flick on the switch as he entered. His changeling eyes glowed in the dark as he moved to the window, peering out onto the street below. One of his neighbors had just arrived home and was carrying her groceries inside, oblivious to the man watching her from above. She was newer to the neighborhood, and he hadn’t met her yet. He should have made more of an effort to get to know her, but it was far too late for that now.

As his gaze slowly moved up, he felt a shiver run up his spine, a horrible feeling gripping his heart. He felt him first, his presence heavy and overwhelming, and then he noticed the reflection of two glowing yellow eyes behind him.

_Fuck._ It seemed that everyone was full of surprises that day. 

“Angor.” 

He did not turn around, he did not even turn his head to look behind him. The Inferna Copula glowed brightly, almost desperately as Angor drew nearer, but he refused to flinch. _He can’t harm you. He_ **_can’t_** _harm you._ The thought was of little comfort as Angor stood behind him, and he could feel his breath on the back of his neck, chilling him as it hit his wet skin. He suddenly felt exposed, vulnerable, and he gripped the window sill to keep himself steady. “What are you doing here?” He managed to get the words out without sounding too nervous, even as his heart pounded in his chest. He heard Angor let out a rumble behind him, and it filled him with dread. 

“We have unfinished business, Stricklander.”

He hardly had time to process Angor’s words or the sound of belts unfastening before he felt Angor shove a large, clawed finger in his mouth, stifling his ability to speak. As he tried to cry out, he watched as his neighbor entered her house and shut the door firmly behind her, snuffing out the light from inside. 


	6. Fill me from the crown to the toe topfull of direst cruelty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all!! I'm so sorry that this took so long and that it's so short, but we're in the final stretch here for this installment of the larger story, and I'm hoping to have it done within the next couple of weeks. Thank you so much for your feedback and for coming back to read more! It means the world to me.
> 
> The line between dubcon and noncon in this chapter is EXTREMELY blurry.

Strickler’s house had always been quiet. While he liked his neighbors, he had chosen his home because of the quiet neighborhood, the option of solitude that it offered to him. He had always liked his privacy, especially after his years of war. The peaceful atmosphere made it easier for him to notice things that were out of place.

But in that moment, the silence became unbearable as the only sounds that he could hear were the rumbling purr in Angor’s chest, the soft grind of his stone jaw, and Strickler’s own muffled groans. The troll’s thumb rested tightly against the back of his neck, his remaining two fingers hooked under Strickler’s jaw. He could feel something wet and slimy against his back. Angor’s hand was heavy against the changeling’s chest, holding him tightly against him, and he struggled to breathe. His heart pounded hard, his hands gripping the troll’s forearms tightly. He was sure that Angor could smell the stink of his fear, and that only seemed to make the tension worse. They had been playing a dangerous game, circling around each other, poking and prodding and testing limits. It seemed now that Strickler would pay the price for it.

“Is this what you wanted, Stricklander?” Angor’s voice rumbled in his ear, and he squeezed his eyes shut. He wanted to bite down on Angor’s stone hand, make him scream, but he knew that he would only break his fragile human teeth if he did. The situation was bad. He had rid himself of fear largely because of the difficulty that it caused when trying to shift forms, and he felt it now as he tried unsuccessful to drop his glamour. “You reek of fear, but you like this, don’t you?” He shivered, unwittingly letting out groan around his finger. He was a sexually desirable creature that had been used and abused more times than he could count, and he could hardly tell the difference between trauma and affection anymore. “You’ve been trying to seduce me since we met. You’re disgusting.”

Angor pulled him tighter against his chest, stopping just at the point where pressure gave way to pain. Using the finger that he had in the changeling’s mouth, he tilted his head back, the changeling’s neck bending at an uncomfortable angle. “Look at me.” Strickler let out a weak huff, nails digging into Angor’s stone flesh, and then opened his eyes. He stared up into the glowing yellow irises of the troll’s eyes, and he felt his stomach churn. It was not lust that burned in those eyes, but rather hate in its purest form. It was readily apparent that his only intent was to humiliate and cause suffering. Strickler tried to curse around Angor’s finger, but it only came out as a garbled noise with no syllables. Angor laughed, shoving his finger further in. Strickler felt his claw brush past his uvula and gagged, convulsing as the troll held him flat against his chest. His eyes had closed when Angor moved his finger, and as he opened them again they were wet with tears.

“Do you feel vulnerable?” He purred the question into the changeling’s wet hair, his breath hot and rank. “You had to have known that I would catch you eventually.” Strickler made a noise that sounded almost like a sob, and he wriggled against Angor, attempting to free himself. The troll chuckled again, his grip tightening. “Poor Stricklander. You always like to play king with things that you cannot control, don’t you?” He slid his hand lower, over his belly and onto his pelvis, his large fingers brushing over the coarse dark hair that covered the changeling’s pubis. He glared up at the troll, squirming harder, tongue moving uselessly against the intrusion in his mouth as continued to try to speak. He beat his fists weakly against Angor’s arms, succeeding only in hurting his own fingers against the rough stone. He felt another rumble against his back as Angor chuckled.

“Do you not like this, Stricklander?”

He recognized the words as the ones that he had said to Angor hours before, and he stared up into his eyes, a last remaining bit of defiance in his own. The troll’s smirk was horrible, and he wanted nothing more than to tear it off of his face. As his large stone hand slid over Strickler’s semi-erect penis, cupping the junction between his legs, he let out a heavy breath. “You can’t help it, can you?” Strickler’s face was red and hot with humiliation at his own arousal, and as he struggled against the hand on his crotch, the sensation sparked warmth in his belly. His eyes fluttering shut, he let out a moan around Angor’s finger as he felt little tendrils slithering against his back, the sensation cool against his heated skin. The fingers around his chin tightened as Angor heard the sound, and the Inferna Copula glowed as he felt pain. Angor let out a hiss as he was forced to loosen his grip, and Strickler opened his eyes again to see the pained look in the troll’s eyes.

“You’re pathetic.” As soon as the words fell from his tongue, Angor pulled back slightly and began uttering an incantation. Alarmed, Strickler attempted to move away once again, but Angor pinned one of his arms against his back. Hearing the sound of something sliding across the floor, he tried desperately to look for the source of the sound, but Angor held his head in place. Feeling something cool and leathery sliding up his legs, the changeling shouted and started kicking, but it was useless. Within moments, his legs were bound, and as he tried to pry away his bindings with his free hand, it too was caught and bound. The troll shoved him up against the wall, releasing his arm. It too was ensnared by one of the enchanted belts, and he writhed against them, his movements useless. When he felt Angor begin to slip his finger back out of his mouth, he prepared a command to shout out. He only had time to get out a choked _Don’t_ before another belt was pulled between his teeth, gagging him once more.

Somehow, his situation was worsening by the minute.

Completely bound, the only thing that held Strickler up was the large hand on his back, pressing him up against the wall. Angor purred behind him, a condescending sound of amusement that reverberated in the room in the most horrible of ways. Strickler wished that he would just fuck him and get it over with, but he knew in his gut that the troll had much more sinister plans for him. “I have you now, Impure.” The rumble of his voice reverberated through Strickler’s groin, and he let out another weak moan against the belt in his mouth. Suddenly, he felt Angor grab the belts that bound him tight, and effortlessly the troll threw him face down onto the bed, helpless and completely at his mercy. _Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck._ Strickler found himself panting, writhing, trying to find some loose spot where he could begin to free himself, but the belts only seemed to tighten the more he struggled, the more Angor chanted.

He needed to find a way out. _Now_. Angor hovered near the edge of the bed, and once again Strickler felt something slimy run up his leg, towards the crease of his arse. Writhing, he tried to get away, but he realized within a moment that the slimy sensation was not actually physically attached to the troll. He tried to crane his neck to see, but he could only catch a glimpse of half of Angor’s face, his mouth moving as a strange trollish dialect rolled off of his tongue. Strickler could feel the slimy sensation moving along his body, over his arse cheek, onto his arm, and he realized that it was a creature that he felt crawling on him. _What is he doing?_ And then, his heart sank. He knew _exactly_ what he was doing. He tried to protest more, to tell Angor to not be a fool, but the belt held fast, and he succeeded only in causing more saliva to drip out of his mouth. An embarrassing predicament made even more embarrassing by the fact that he hadn’t seen it coming.

The creature slid it’s way onto his hand, and sure enough, he felt little tendrils sliding along his fingers, trying to slip their way underneath the Inferna Copula. He clenched his hand into as tight of a fist as he could, and he heard Angor growl behind him. “Don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be, ezuth.” The insult rings in his ears over and over and over again as Angor reached out, prying open the changeling’s weak human hand as gently as he could. The situation was more than dire, but Strickler could hear a horrible squeal and hiss as the slimy creature touched the ring, and Angor let out another growl of frustration. Strickler squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force himself to remain calm, to let the fear leave his body so that he might be able to shift.

 _Ezuth_. It’s what they had called him for so long, long before he was Stricklander, and it only took a few years for them to go back to calling him it after the fear dissipated enough for their hatred to return. He could still remember the sensation of the man’s skin around him, pulled tight and sewed shut, and oh it had been so difficult to breath through the blood and flayed skin, and he could still hear their raucous laughter and jeering.

He had ripped himself free from the flesh, and then killed each one of them himself.

Strickler’s eyes snapped open then, and with a loud growl, he dropped the glamour from his mouth and ripped through the leather with his sharp troll teeth. Letting out a grunt and then a shout, he flipped himself onto his back, crushing the creature beneath his growing weight, and with both glowing eyes staring directly into Angors, he ripped the rest of his bonds free, his body changing into that of his true form.

He made no command, said nothing, simply growled and screamed as he leapt onto Angor Rot, scratching and punching and biting into that flesh the way he had so desired to do, and the troll tried to fight back, tried to push him away, but Stricklander was relentless, fury ripping through his body in waves as his claws ripped through Angor’s flesh. The troll made no sound but grunts of pain as he tried to fight him off, but then suddenly Stricklander had his entire hand in the scar on Angor’s chest. The troll stared up at him, and for a moment, Stricklander saw fear. It filled him with such a delight as he had not felt in years. With a ferocious growl, Stricklander pulled back his arm, and tore out a human-fist sized chunk from Angor’s chest.

That one pulled a scream from the troll, his head clattering loudly against the floorboards and he flung it back, leaving a solid dent in the wood. Holding up the chunk triumphantly, Stricklander stared down at the troll, panting, before he flung the chunk across the room, where it hit the wall with a loud smack. Stripped of his dignity and oozing glowing blue blood, Angor roared and made one more attempt to grab the changeling, and found himself pushed back by the force of the Inferna Copula. The ring glowed brightly in the dark of the room, nearly as bright as the changeling’s eyes, and Stricklander bared his teeth in rage.

“You are the most foolish troll I have ever met. Did you _really_ think that you would get it this time? Trickery has done nothing but fail you, just as _you_ have failed me!” Stricklander punched him in the chest, right in his fresh wound, and his green hand came away with the glowing blue from inside of the troll. “I will give you one last chance, and if in the morning the trollhunter still breathes, I will _kill_ you.”

With those words left floating through the air, Stricklander stood, towering over Angor for once, his nude form shapely and illuminated from behind by the light of the moon, and as the troll stared up at him, he thought for a long moment of nothing but the beauty that the changeling somehow possessed. He wanted to cry in frustration, but he was a grown troll, and far too hardened for that. “Now _get out,_ and don’t come back.” The changeling’s words are cold and harsh, and the tug that Angor feels to leave is overwhelming.

Nude save for the armor around his waist and on his shoulder, Angor stands to his full height, glares down at Stricklander for a long time, and then does as he is instructed.


	7. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here is the interlude. I doubt I will have the final chapter up so soon as this, but here is something for the mean time.
> 
> TW for mentions of rape in this one, as well as some gore.

_ 1782 A.D., In the Baltic Shield _

“Let me look at you, Angor.” The voice is soft, kind, but Angor has never known kindness to spill from their lips. A slender, tall blue troll stands before him, their long ghoulish fingers reaching out to touch the wound on his chest. He jerks back, just out of their reach, and glares up at them, teeth bared. “Sit still.” Their command is sharper, and it tugs at something at the back of his neck, like a chain attached to his spine. As the hand approaches him, he looks at the Inferna Copula where it rests on their ring finger, and oh how he wishes to take it, but knows that he can’t. He’s tried with many a master before them, but the Eldritch Queen’s spell is unyielding. So, he sits still, and watches with wary eyes as the other troll touches him, their fingers even colder than his own stone flesh, and as much as he wants to wince, to shy away, the invisible chain holds him fast.

“It’s nothing,” he grinds out, ignoring the pain as they poke and prod at him, a long claw probing at the exposed stone underneath his skin. “It’ll heal, it’s nothing to be concerned about.” The other troll makes no expression, but simply continues prodding at the wound, producing the glowing blue blood that flows throughout his veins. The pain is becoming worse, but they do not stop, and he grinds his teeth, but knows that protest will only bring him punishment.

“Did you at least kill him?” they ask, drawing back their hand at last, looking at the drops of blood as they drip from their claw. Angor grunts in confirmation, crossing his arms across his chest.

“Another one gone, just as you desired,” he says, as if it is nothing - and it is nothing to him at this point. How many has he killed? He can’t keep track anymore. The other troll grins, showing off their gleaming sharp teeth, and flicking out their tongue they lick the blood from their finger.

“Gunmar will be pleased to hear it.” They then place both hands on Angor Rot’s chest, leaning close, all seven eyes staring into Angor’s own.  _ Gunmar won’t care because he is trapped in the Darklands and is helpless to do anything _ , he thinks to himself, but says nothing. Trainu Nim is not one to hear what they don’t want to. “Come closer, Angor,” they say, leaning down, closer to his wound, their tongue winding back out of their mouth. “Let me  _ help _ you.”

* * *

_ 2016 A.D., Arcadia Oaks _

Angor grunts in pain as he falls back onto his nest, his hand clutching at the reopened wound on his chest. It burns hotter than it had when he first received the wound, and he can almost feel the stone crumbling around the area where the largest section had been removed by Stricklander’s harsh claws. It stings horribly, and Angor curses the changeling with his every breath, wishing that he could have ripped out something from  _ his _ chest. Curse Stricklander, curse the Inferna Copula, and curse the Trollhunter! How many times had he and Stricklander encountered each other in the past, thinking each was the last? If only he had known at the time, he would have killed him, ripped his guts from underneath his stone flesh, crushed his skull with his very own hands. He would have made him suffer, made him pay for all of the things that he would come to do, Gunmar’s precious little pet.

But then, there was the pull, wasn’t there? And it had  _ always _ been there, hadn’t it? He feels that strange force now, compelling him to go to him, to see him, to touch him. It makes him feel disgusting, disgusting like some filthy fleshbag, disgusting like the scum of the deepest dark parts of Todor’s Keep, disgusting like Trainu Nim and countless other masters had made him feel.

At least Stricklander had never  _ really _ tried to fuck him.

_ Stop. _ He hates that the thought crosses his mind, and as he clutches at the wound harder, he grimaces, letting the anger wash over him in waves along with the pain. There is no need to try to sympathize with the monster, Gunmar’s tool who was always so happy to do exactly what he asked of him. Even Angor had never been  _ that _ obedient.

The thought hurts still, and he pushes it away, out of his immediate memory. Shutting his eyes, he breathes deeply, trying to relax, to calm his mind and dissipate the pain - he has to find another way to try to get the ring before dawn. Stricklander would never be able to kill him, of course, but with the changeling’s penchant for cruelty, who knows what he would do with the ring.

He feels another sharp pang in his chest, and he cries out, his voice echoing against the walls of the abandoned tunnels. He takes a deep breath, and then another, and then yet another still, and at last he pulls his hand away from his wound, letting out a sharp hiss as he does so. As he looks at his hand, he feels a chill run down his spine.

At first thinking it a trick of the light, he abruptly gets up, bracing himself against the wall of his makeshift home as he sees the blue blood shift to a sickly green. Looking down, he sees the same change occurring in the wound itself, the yellowing of the blue-purple stone beneath.

_ “Curse you!” they had screamed as they held the stump where their finger had once been, the dead troll crumbling at their feet. “You will pay for your disobedience one day! One day you will have a master that will not tolerate your insolence as I have, and you will come to realize that I am the best you have ever had!” _

Trainu Nim’s voice still echoes in his mind as his gut churns, and the green spreads.


	8. There’s a knocking at the gate. What’s done cannot be undone. (Wednesday)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading this whole thing! This is only the second story EVER that I have finished, and although it may not be the best, I'm proud of at least being able to do that. I sincerely appreciate all of your feedback as I've written this, and as I work on the next installment I hope that you will continue to support me. Thank you again!

**Ezuth - /eɪ zuː TH/ - Trollish noun, rude** **  
** **A spineless, vain person wearing the skin of an honorable man.**

* * *

 

_ 1215 A.D., The Catacombs of Shergis the Wretched, Stercaland _

“Do you see the boy?” The voice is a low rumble behind him, and Ásgeirr nods, leaning closer. “Look at him, Ásgeirr, and study his movements. See how he talks, how he walks, how he  _ exists _ .” The changeling does as he is instructed, his eyes squinting as he looks through the Eye of Kerlan, trying not to feel too anxious at the close proximity of Gunmar. “What do you see?” The changeling watches, picking out the small minutiae of the young man’s behavior, looking for something impressive. Sten the farmhand has little to offer that is impressive, but he has a peculiar gait, and he tells Gunmar so. Gunmar chuckles, circling around Ásgeirr. “Very good. Do you know what happened to him?”

“No, my lord,” the changeling says, drawing his gaze away from the Eye to look upon his master. Gunmar smirks down at him.

“A troll whelp crushed his leg with her jaws - it never healed right.” All of a sudden, Gunmar takes a nearby staff and slams the butt of it into Ásgeirr’s right leg  _ hard _ , causing the changeling to let out a yelp and collapse to the ground, dropping the Eye.

As pain sears through his leg, Ásgeirr grits his teeth, his eyes squeezed shut, and lets out a low “thank you.” Gunmar chuckles, setting the staff down. The changeling rolls onto his back, looking up into Gunmar’s eye as the troll approaches, reaching out with his large hand. Instead of taking it, Ásgeirr allows him to scoop him up in it, setting him down on the edge of Gunmar’s nest.

“Do you know why I selected you above all the others, Ásgeirr?” The changeling tilts his head up with a look of pride in his glowing eyes.

“Because I’m the best,” he says simply, grinding his teeth through the pain, and Gunmar grins wider.

“Of course you are, my dear pet.” Propping the changeling up in the pile of stone around him, the troll crouches down to eye-level, his one remaining eye glowing brightly in the dark. “And this is an important mission that I can only trust with the  _ best. _ ” Reaching down, he picks up the Eye of Kerlan once more, holding it out for Ásgeirr. The changeling takes it, looking back through it, trying his hardest to ignore the searing pain in his leg. “You will be Sten. You will use your half human charms to woo the fleshbag Walter to our cause, and then to kill him.” Ásgeirr blinks up at Gunmar, allowing the Eye to rest in his lap.

“What if I can’t convince him?” Ásgeirr asks, and Gunmar’s eyes narrow.

“If the stories are true, then I  _ know _ you can be quite persuasive.” Ásgeirr flushes, looking away from his master and back down towards the Eye. He sees Sten, hobbling alongside some other humans that he does not yet know, but will soon, and then he sees Walter, standing tall and proud, an easy and warm smile on his face as he looks back at his men. He’s a handsome man, but that’s one observation that he dare not make to Gunmar. “Do you understand what you are to do, Ásgeirr?” The changeling looks up at him, some kind of tainted ferocity in his eyes.

“Trap him, and destroy him.”

* * *

The house was quiet as the sunlight began to stream through the windows, dawn’s light bright in his normally dark home. There were places in his home that hadn’t been touched by sunlight in years, and they almost seemed to shy away from the light, as did Stricklander. Despite the quiet, however, the house was very much full of activity as Strickler scurried frantically from room to room, blocking off this and that and trying his hardest to keep himself calm. There were 32 missed calls on his phone, which still lit up on occasion as Barbara desperately tried to reach him, to hear his voice, to try to coax some kind of reassurance from his silence.

Books were stacked high all over his living room, his kitchen, even extending up the stairs as he moved items out of his basement, searching through each and every book as he did so. He found the book he needed hours ago, but committed to the task as he was, there is little point in stopping now. A single suitcase stood near the door, waiting patiently as its owner continued his frantic work, human hands handling trollish artifacts so ancient that it makes one’s head spin. As he worked, the changeling frequently looked at the clock, tracking the time, feeling his stomach churn as the deadline rapidly approached, arrived, and then vanished once more.

He knew that Angor wouldn’t do it. For some reason the command  _ kill the trollhunter _ is one that his assassin is able to ignore, perhaps because Stricklander never really meant it when he said it.

He could still remember it, how very small yet heavy Jim had felt in his arms, his limp, bloodied body dripping red onto the floorboards and out the door as Strickler carried him, his heart thudding hard in his chest. The guilt that he felt had multiplied over the last several hours, despite his near inability to think of anything other than the fear of what Angor Rot would try next.  _ It’s only a matter of time before he catches you. _ He did not know it yet, but it is a thought that would follow him for the next several months.

With a delicate touch, the changeling circled around the center of his basement, placing smooth, ornately carved stones in a perfect ring, taking a step back once the final one was placed. He looked around him, his basement not nearly cleared out, but a wide berth was given to the stasis trap and it felt so horribly empty for it. There was a hollowness that he felt as he stared around him, something horribly wrong echoing in his chest. He could hear his clock upstairs chiming 6:30am, and he took a long, deep breath. Taking another one, and then another, he at last walked over to a haphazard pile near the foot of the stairs, and picked up the Kairosect from where it rested on top of a stack tomes of erotic troll fiction.

Pressing the button, time slowed to a stop, although to human ears nothing seemed much more different than it did before. But with his keen troll senses he could hear that all had stilled aboveground, and he was free to move about once more. He stared at the stasis trap for a long moment before he stepped forward, grabbing a copy of Shakespeare’s complete works, translated into common Trollish, and flipping through it. Without a thought, he stepped into the stasis trap, stopping on the passage that he had found fitting for their unfortunate dynamic. Was it a curse or a wish? He tried not to think about it too much. Setting the volume on the ground, open, he then looked down at the Inferna Copula on his finger, admiring the way the shadows played off of its angles. His fingers hovered over it for a long time, unwilling to do what he knew must be done, and what then could not be undone.

Why had he taken it in the first place?

It was a question that haunted him frequently, especially over the last several days. It seemed like their relationship had deteriorated so rapidly, shaky thing that it was to begin with. What would it have been in another world? Would the soft parts of them have came together, the gentler parts of them that hurt when touched too harshly, broken creatures that they were? Would they have been enemies all the same, even if Gunmar had not waged his war? Would their roles be reversed, with Stricklander now on the rampage for his soul?

He did not know why, but the thought made him want to cry.

He heaved a shaky breath, grasping the ring with his fingers, and then suddenly found himself transported to a black and white world. He had been in that place many times, seen the tales that it had to tell more times than he could count. In that world, Angor lay before him, sprawled in his nest, his face contorted in agony as he clutched at the wound that Stricklander had given him the night before. Strange - as Strickler looked down at the still form, he felt an overwhelming sense of pity for him, and guilt for the pain that he had caused.

_ You have killed thousands. You are chaos incarnate. _

He took in a deep breath, and then shut his eyes, pulling the ring from his finger and ended the vision. It did not matter who had made him that way - Angor was a monster, and monsters did not deserve his sympathy.

_ You hypocrite.  _ **_You’re_ ** _ a monster. _

He placed the Inferna Copula on top of the open book, and then exited the stasis trap, grabbing the Kairosect before he made his way up the stairs. He stopped mid-way up, taking a look at his work - the circle, the trap left in plain sight, the verse written in red blood on the walls. His hand stung where he had sliced it open and then haphazardly bandaged it, and he uttered a silent apology to Barbara before he walked back up to the ground floor.

* * *

Whether it was Trainu Nim’s curse or some tainted touch that Stricklander possessed, Angor found himself beyond angry and in agonizing pain as he lay in his nest, gathering up the will to stand. It seemed that the green ooze had stopped spreading, but still it had rotted away a fair amount of the original scar, leaving yellowish-green gems underneath. He found himself speaking every curse that he knew for the changeling, furious and hurt and ready to crush him to dust with his own hands. Either way, the day would end with one of them dead, and Angor was determined to make sure that it was Stricklander.

And so, as soon as he could stand he set to work on trapping his little hovel, the very place where he had trapped Stricklander days before and where he had reminded him of the truth and where  _ he could still feel Stricklander’s fists beating into him again and again, the changeling’s rage apparent on his horrible beautiful features, and then his hands gentle gentle running over the place where so many had touched him before, but not taking that movement to its completion _ \- Stopping that train of thought, he slammed his fist into the wall with a loud yell, his corroded scar throbbing with the movement.

It was in that moment, with that throb, that a sudden, horrible feeling overwhelmed his gut. The pull tugged at his spine, but it was harsh, cruel, and so so very  _ wrong _ . He froze mid-trap, staring blankly at the wall. He needed to go. He needed to go  _ now _ . He did not trust Stricklander in the slightest, and the cruelty that such a horrendous creature is capable of set him on edge.

And so he found himself rushing out of his makeshift home as quickly as he could, the stone of his feet thudding against concrete as he ran, clumsily and uncertain through the tunnels underneath Arcadia, the strange catacombs which he had come to know more well than he had ever wanted. The path to Stricklander’s home was familiar to him, as much as he hated it, and it did not take much for him to find his way there - the trick was going to be staying in the shadows as he entered the house, not knowing what traps awaited him there.

It took him a while, much longer than he would have liked with the panic rising in his chest and all, but Angor found a manhole cover shaded by a nearby house and as he made his way to the surface, he stuck to the shadows, thankful for the fleshbags’ need to keep their houses close together. It did not take long before he found himself in Strickler’s backyard, his chest throbbing and his strongest impulse being to tear down the door. He reached out with his hand, expecting to feel the same rudimentary hex that had guarded the door before, but he did not feel it now. A feeling of unease continued to wash over him at the discovery, and as he grabbed the handle and turned it, he found it unlocked.

It sent a shudder down his spine.

As he allowed the door open, he pulled out his dagger, unsure of what to expect other than the worst. The house was dark, all of the curtains drawn, and it was  _ trashed _ . Books in haphazard piles, all sorts of strange artifacts (many of which were familiar to the troll) scattered carelessly around the dwelling, and a contradictory but overwhelming sense of complete emptiness filled the space. It only took Angor two sniffs and a moment to look down and notice the trail of blood that led from the door, around the corner, and towards the basement stairs.

_ What is he planning? _

Stepping into the house, Angor moved carefully, using the remainder of his focus to stay alert, aware of any odd sounds in the home - but he heard nothing but absolute silence. It was clear to him that Stricklander had created this setup for the troll’s benefit, and as much as he was loathe to do what the changeling wanted, Angor still had a terrible sense of foreboding that would not leave him be. And so, he found himself following the trail of blood, his steps silent and cautious, and as he rounded the corner he saw that the trail did indeed lead down the basement steps. Standing at the top of the stairs for a long time, Angor stared down them, finding himself unsure of what to do.

_ You will pay for your disobedience one day! _

Was this it? Would the  _ ezuth _ make true on his promise to kill him? Angor gripped the knife tighter, and began his descent down the stairs.

When he arrived at the bottom landing, he froze, his eyes wide with shock as he saw the scene laid before him. A great circle was before him, the cluttered walls decorated with words in a language that Angor could not read very well, and in the center of the ring, a stasis trap. Seeing the Inferna Copula atop the book in the trap, Angor felt his heart racing in his chest, a feeling which seemed to trigger the pain in his scar again. Letting out a grunt, he dropped the knife, steadying himself against the wall for a moment as he stared at the trap, contemplating it.

_ Why? _

His eyes glided over the trap, back to the writing on the wall. He recognized it as English, but still he had difficulty picking out the letters. He knew a great many languages and dialects, as was expected of a troll his age, but so rarely had he used English that it then escaped him as he attempted to read it. It did not matter in that moment however, as his attention was drawn back to the ring that held his soul, and the book upon which it rested. Taking another look around the basement, he verified that he was alone before he grabbed a book off of a nearby pile, taking aim.

The first book missed, bounced off of one of the invisible bars around the ring, and then the second one for the same reason, and then the third. As he made more and more attempts, each unsuccessful, the words written in blood on the walls seemed to drip more.

_ And in this vow do I chain my soul to thine. _

* * *

The rumble of the airplane engine shook the cabin in a way that Strickler did not like, but he knew that it was the safest and quickest way to put some distance between him and what was sure to be an extremely enraged troll. He stared blankly ahead as the passengers boarded, watching each of their faces out of the corner of his eye. He recognized none of them, no people to report back that Walter Strickler, most likely suspected attempted murderer was last seen on a plane to New York, far away from the troubles that Arcadia had brought to him. He had an irrational fear that somehow Angor would find him here, would dare to come on board only to leave him a mess of blood and gore against the airplane seat, but he knew that that would not happen. The plane would be closed soon and they would be aloft, far away from the underground hovel that Angor was suffering in. Besides, Angor knew nothing of airplanes or how airports worked, and there was only so much the pull could tell him about his location.

“Hi, sorry, I’ve just got to get to the other seat.”

Stricklander nearly jumped out of his human skin as the woman’s voice came from his right side, and he turned to see a lovely brunette woman in her thirties smiling at him. She laughed a little at the strange expression that he made, and then covered her mouth in embarrassment. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you - or to laugh at you.” Strickler offered a smile of his own, a practiced calm to it.

“It’s quite alright - I suppose I was just lost in another world.” He laughed a little himself, and then moved to get up. She quirked an eyebrow upon hearing his accent, and then gave him a devious little smirk. She stepped aside, allowing him into the aisle, and then moved into the row to take the window seat.

“Sorry again about scaring you. I’ll try not to do it again,” she said as he took his seat once more and buckled in.

“My dear, with the things I’ve seen, you have absolutely no chance of scaring me.” It’s said with a smile, but there’s something ominous about his words. Suddenly, he felt a heat in the inner pocket of his coat, and reaching in, he pulled out a carved amulet of deep purple-blue, inlaid with a green stone emblem and surrounded by trollish runes. The trinket felt hot in his hand, and there was a bright glow to it that he knew that only a troll could see, but still he covered it with his hand.

“That’s a beautiful rock,” the woman said, craning her neck a bit to try to get a better look. Strickler glanced at her briefly before looking back at the rock, offering only a wan smile before he opened his hand again to show her.

“Yes. Enchanting, isn’t it?”

* * *

Angor’s breath was heavy when at last he got a book through, and that very breath caught in his throat when he watched it knock the open book and the ring alike out of the circle, the Inferna Copula clattering across the basement floor. In his mad scramble to reach the ring, he nearly slipped and fell into the stasis trap, but managed to avoid it as he fell to his knees before the ring. As he reached out, he hesitated, almost afraid to touch it. It had only ever hurt him, hadn’t it? And what had having a soul even felt like? Was it even worth all of the trouble?

And then he thought about his previous masters, with their harsh hands and their wandering tongues, how they loved to use him for war and copulation alike, how he had been turned by that witch into nothing more than a tool for death and destruction and fucking and how he had never gotten any say in any of it.  _ You have killed thousands. _ They had feared him.  _ You are chaos incarnate. _ They had  _ all _ feared him.  _ And you are  _ **_mine_ ** . 

He had been kind once, young, and full of hope, and it had been  _ stolen _ from him.

He hesitated no longer, and grabbed the ring. Through some ancient magic long forgotten, he watched as his soul winded out from the trollish  _ A _ on the ring, a wisp of yellow smoke in the air. It was beautiful and marvelous and it filled him with such great fear to see it, and in his desperation he reached out and grabbed it and -

All went dark for a moment, and when he saw again, he saw Argante, her shadowy hand reaching out from the dark, the Inferna Copula in her hand. He watched as she closed her hand, and when it was open again, it was naught but a piece of his flesh. And then he saw himself, young and naive, and his young naive self took the piece from Argante’s hand, and once again united the piece with the rest of his living stone.

And Angor wept.

As he felt his soul enter his body, the wisp entering through his mouth, he truly and freely wept, feeling no shame as he collapsed to his knees, clutching the ring tightly to his chest. And then he laughed, and then he wept again, the centuries of numbness being washed away by wave after wave of strong emotion.

And then, that horrible, horrible, sinking feeling tugged at the back of his neck again. The pull. Sitting up, he stared down at the ring, now lifeless and dull and bland like the rest of his external stone, and he felt nothing but confusion. And then, he felt the place within him where the fragment of his soul bounced around the space far too big for it, frantically searching for the rest of itself as Angor had been searching for it for centuries. His mouth gaped open, and suddenly, he felt so very, very very empty.

And Angor roared, rage overtaking him.

“Curse you!”  _ Curse you! _ ” The screams echoed throughout the basement, causing the walls to seem to shake with the boom of his voice, the stacks of books and trinkets falling into shambles as the sound of his voice and the strength of his fists knocked them from where they had been so deliberately placed. Pages were ripped from spines, glass shattered, stone crushed underfoot, all while Angor screamed and shouted, the tiny bit of his soul that he had raging with him at his somehow even more tremendous loss.

He left a path of destruction in his wake as he made his way upstairs to the dark living room, ripping and crushing and smashing until there was nothing left but the disaster and desolation that looked so very much like how Gunmar had left  _ his _ home.

The pain of the wound on his chest at last overtook him again, and collapsing against the hideous orange couch, Angor wept again, his face cradled in his great hands. He remembered this couch, the smell, the feel, and the way that his hand had felt around Stricklander’s neck.  _ If you want to fuck me, you need only to say so. _ There had been a kind of hurt in his eyes, a pain, the dangerous kind that said that of course he was cruel, of course he would do such a thing as this, of course he would because they had made him that way - just like Angor. He was a hideous, beautiful creature, and as Angor gulped down huge, shaking breaths, he wondered if in the end, he should have just said so.

As the house grew quiet, the day wore on, casting shadows in the living room where Angor sat silently. It was not until dark that he found himself capable of much more than desperate sadness. Finally, in control of himself once more, he stood up on shaky legs, paying no mind as he waded through the devastation that he had left in his wake. As he moved down the steps, his feet made a heavy thud with each step, until he at last found himself back before the book that the Inferna Copula had been left on, miraculously untouched in Angor’s rage. He bent down, grasping it in his large hand, and with rage in his eyes he read the words upon the page.

                                **WARWICK**

                               Then let the earth be drunken with our blood!  
                               I’ll kill my horse because I will not fly.  
                                Why stand we like soft-hearted women here,  
                               Wailing our losses whiles the foe doth rage,  
                                And look upon, as if the tragedy  
                                Were played in jest by counterfeiting actors?

_                                                                          [He kneels.] _

__ Here on my knee I vow to God above  
                                I’ll never pause again, never stand still,  
                                Till either death hath closed these eyes of mine  
                                Or Fortune given me measure of revenge.

                                **EDWARD**

                               O Warwick, I do bend my knee with thine,  
                                And in this vow do chain my soul to thine

_                                                                         [He kneels.] _

                               And, ere my knee rise from the Earth’s cold face,  
                                I throw my hands, mine eyes, my heart to Thee,  
                                Thou setter up and plucker down of kings,  
                                Beseeching Thee, if with Thy will it stands  
                                That to my foes this body must be prey,  
                                Yet that Thy brazen gates of heaven may ope  
                                And give sweet passage to my sinful soul.


End file.
